7.:<i-^.2_/ 


LIBRARY  OF   THE  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


i 


BL  2710  .F76  1864 
Frothingham,  Washington,  b. 

1822. 
Atheos,  or.  The  tragedies  of 


i 

■A-. 

i 

\i'- 

1 

■-.■-•■  ■ 

REVOLUTIONISIS  OF  THE   REIGN   OF  TERROR. 


ATHEOS; 


V 


0iwms(^ 


OE, 


JUL  29  1921 


THE  TEAGEDIES  OF  UNBELIEF. 


/ 

BY   WASHINGTON    FROTHINGHAM. 


"•  adeoL  tv  TU)   KoofKoy 


Ilpujosiaks  II.  12. 


SECOND      EDITION. 


NEW  TOEK: 
SHELDON    &    COMPANY. 

1864. 


h 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1862,  by 

Sheldon  &  Company, 

111  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  fur  th. 

Southern  District  of  New  Voi-k. 


PREFACE. 


TT  HAS  never  been  denied,  even  by  its 
inspired   defenders,    tliat  Christianity, 
(viewed,  at  least,  in  some  of  its  doctrines,) 
is  attended  with  certain  difftculties.     But  it 
will  be  found,  upon  a  careful  examination, 
that  these  arise,  not  from  any  defect  in  the 
system,  but  from  the  impossibility  of  the 
finite  to  comprehend  the  Infinite.      They 
chiefly  involve  such  questions  as  the  de- 
crees of  God — the  Divine  government,  and 
the  origin  of  sin,  and  other  points  equally 
beyond  the  grasp  of  the  human  intellect; 
and  hence  affect  no  essentials.     Notwith- 
standing this,   they   are    urged  with  such 


PREFACE. 


vcliemence  by  infidel  assailants,  that  one 
might  at  first  suppose  their  own  schemes 
to  be  fi'ce  fi'om  all  defect. 

In  a  controversy  which  has  lasted  for 
ages,  originality  can  neither  be  claimed  nor 
expected ;  hence  the  following  delineations 
are  only  offered  as  a  new  featm-e  in  the 
evidence,  so  long  accumulating,  from  the 
insuperable  difticulties  of  Infidelity.  The 
Author's  purpose  is  simply  to  illustrate,  by 
a  few  striking  examples,  the  Avell-establish- 
ed  truth,  that  notwithstanding  the  preten- 
sion of  infidel  philosophy,  its  adoption  and 
practice  can  lead  only  to  individual  and 
national  ruin. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 


The  Child  Bard;  Youth  in  Bristol;  Tlie  Attorney's  Clerk;  The 
Friar's  Mai-cli ;  Secret  Ambition;  The  Rowley  Papers;  The  Young 
Poet ;  Early  Infidelity ;  Tendency  of  Unbelief  to  Suicide ;  Journey  to 
London ;  His  Hopes ;  His  Letters ;  The  Mirage ;  Fall  of  Ambition ; 
Despair ;  Temptation ;  Remarks  on  Suicide  ;  Result  of  Infidelity ;  Con- 
trast between  Kirke  "White  and  Chatterton  ;  Conclusion Page  11. 

BOOK  XL 

The  Plevolntionist ;  Basis  of  National  Strength ;  True  Yiew  of  the 
Revolutionist;  Cromwell  and  Washington;  Paine's  Early  Days;  Ac- 
quaintance with  Franklin ;  Visits  America ;  The  Crisis ;  His  Bold 
Position ;  DifBculties  ;  Leaves  for  France ;  The  Convention ;  National 
Insanity;  The  Scenes  in  Convention  and  at  the  Guillotine;  Paris 
Theatricals  During  Reign  of  Terror ;  Contrast  with  the  American 
Congress;  Paine's  Arrest ;  Anacharsis  Clootz ;  The  Luxembourg  and  its 
Prisoners ;  The  Age  of  Reason ;  Where  Written,  and  its  Contents 
Examined ;  Return  to  America  and  Death ;  American  School  of  Infi- 
delity ;  Views  of  President  Dwight. Page  bd.^i- 

BOOK  in. 

• 

The  Politician ;  Scenes  in  Northampton  ;  The  Edwards  Family  ; 
Esther ;  Young  Burr  the  Preacher ;  Year  of  Mortality ;  The  Orphan ; 
Effect  of  Infidelity  in  YoTith ;  The  Northern  Campaign ;  Return 
from  Quebec ;  The  Attorney ;  The  Canvass  for  the  Presidency ;  Hamil- 
ton; His  Letters;  Infidelity  Effloresced;  The  Duel;  Richmond  Court 
House  ;  The  Trial  for  Treason  ;  Schemes  aud  Failure  ;  Life  in  Paris ; 
Suffering ;  Return  to  America ;  Theodosia ;  Letters ;  Wreclc ;  Death 
of  Alston;    Old  Age;    Value  of   Piety  Now;  Death;    The   Lesson. 

Pago  115. 


0  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  IV. 
The  R,eforiner :  Introduction ;  The  Funeral  Pile  ;  Modern  Reform  ; 
Its  OriKin;  Iiilidel  Reformers  in  England;  Shelley  at  School;  Life  in 
Oxford ;  Atheism ;  Expulsion  ;  First  Marriage,  blasted  b}-  Infidelity  ; 
Schemes  of  Reform ;  Elopes  with  Mary  Godwin ;  Suicide  of  First 
Wife;  The  Family  an  Object  of  Satanic  Attack ;  Shelley's  Views  on 
Marriage ;  Those  of  Rousseau ;  Same  Principle  Adopted  by  National 
Convention;  Rome  in  1819;  Conflicts  and  Sorrows  of  the  Wanderers; 
Contrasts ;  The  Cenci ;  Beatrice ;  Prometheus  Unbound ;  Reform 
Again ;  Chalmers'  Views ;  Socialism ;  The  Convention  in  Bo.^ton ; 
Shelley  at  Pisa;  The  Villa  Magni;  Leigh  Hunt;  Tlie  Last  Voyage  and 
Wreck Page  1G3. 

BOOK  V. 

The  Tribunal  •  'Love  of  Justice  Natural  to  Man ;  Impartiality  of  the 
Mosaic  Code;  Boasts  of  Infidelity:  Its  Claims  Examined;  Dr.  Guillo- 
tine; His  Invention;  The  Infidel  Tribunal;  Its  Judge  and  Jury;  Its 
Perversion  of  Justice;  Shifting  of  the  Guillotine;  Victims  of  In- 
justice in  the  Carrousel ;  Place  de  la  Revolution  ;  Barriere  du  Trone ; 
The  Girondins;  Their  Trial  and  Fate;  Charlotte  Corday;  Madame  Ro- 
land; The  Farmers  General;  Danton;  Escape  of  Loizerolles;  Jus- 
tice Under  an  Infidel  Regime;  List  of  Victims  of  a  Single  Bay; 
Henriot  Stops  the  Rescue ;  The  Commune  of  Paris  Guillotined ;  Final 
Retribution;  Robespierre  and  Fouquier  Tinvillc  brought  to  the  Axe; 
Conclusion , Page  221. 

BOOK  A'l. 

The  Philosopher  ;  Introduction;  Dark  Hours  in  Scottish  History; 
Its  Cause;  Birth  of  Hume ;  St.  Oniers;  The  Argument  Against  Mira- 
cles; State  of  EngUsh  Literature;  Examination  of  Hume's  Argument; 
His  Confession  of  Horrors;  Defence  of  Suicide;  Visit  to  France; 
French  Society  before  the  Revolution ;  Rousseau ;  The  Quarrel ;  Hume's 
Last  Days  in  Edinburgh Page  269. 


APPENDIX. 

The  Deatli-Bed 305 

Paine's  Escape  from  the  Guillotine 3.S7 

Washington  Irving  at  the  Conciergcrie 339 

Journalism  During  the  Reign  of  Terror 341 

Explanation  of  IliusLratious 403 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FKONTISPIECE— THE    GUILLOTINE   AND   ITS   VIC- 
TIMS. 
SAINT  MARY'S  CHURCH. 
PORTRAIT  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
REMORSE,  AFTER  RETZSCH. 
ARREST  OF  PAINE. 

PORTRAIT  OF  BURR,  WITH  VIGNETTES. 
THE  GAME  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 
BEATRICE  CENCL 
SHELLEY'S  GRAVE. 
THE  PLACE  DE  LA  CONCORDE. 
HENRIOT  STOPPING  THE  RESCUE. 
PORTRAIT  OF  DANTON. 
THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 
THE  JACOBIN  CLUB-HOUSE.    . 


^^TTTTE  are  -well  aware  of  the  diversity  of  complexion 
»  »  which  Infidelity  puts  on.  It  looks  one  thing  in  the 
man  of  science ;  it  looks  another  thing  in  the  refined  volup- 
tuary ;  it  looks  still  another  thing  in  the  common-place  railer 
against  the  artifices  of  priestly  domination.  It  looks  another 
thing  in  the  dark  and  unsettled  spirit  of  him  whose  every 
reflection  is  tinctured  with  gall,  and  who  casts  his  envious 
and  malignant  scowl  at  all  that  stands  associated  with  the 
established  order  of  society.  And  lastly,  for  Infidelity  has 
now  gotten  down  among  us  to  the  humblest  walks  of  life,  it 
may  occasionally  be  seen  lowering  on  the  forehead  of  the  re- 
solute and  hardy  artificer,  who  can  lift  up  his  menacing  voice 
against  the  priesthood;  and,  looking  on  the  Bible  as  a  jugglery 
of  theirs,  can  bid  stout  defiance  to  all  its  denunciations." 

Chalmers'  Astronomical  Discourses. 


BOOK    FIRST 


THE    CHILD    BARD 


"Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  mind  doth  raise 

But  the  fair  gtterdon,  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury,  with  the  abhorred  shears. 
And  slits  the  tuin  spun  life." 

Lycidas. 


THE    CHILD    BARD 


THERE  are  hours  when  the  soul,  weary  of  the  dull 
plodding  of  daily  life,  turns  to  its  secret  wells,  and  is 
strengthened  for  new  conflict  by  their  refreshing  waters. 
There  are  hours  when  one ,  loves  to  wander  through  the 
quaint  fields  of  memory,  all  fragrant  with  unfading  flowers, 
whose  aroma  restores  as  well  as  delights.  There  are  hours 
when  the  past  overcomes  us;  and,  yielding  to  its  spell,  we 
forget  both  the  bodings  and  blandishments  of  the  future,  and 

become  even  oblivious  of  the  present. 

« 

Such  are  the  hours  which  we  share  with  that  dear  com- 
panion of  our  earlier  days,  as  he  revives  the  wanderings  of 
his  youth,  and  renews  his  pilgrimage  to  Stratford-on-Avon, 
in  M'hose  church,  so  quaint  and  dreamy,  he  breathed  a  silent 
tribute  to  the  departed  great. 

But  there  are  also  hours  when  the  soul  moves  to  the  deep 
wail  of  unutterable  dirges — when,  standing  by  some  memo- 
rial of  colossal  woe,  the  night  side  of  life  opens  before  us  its 
vast  expanse,  folding  us  in  shadow;  while  we  hear  weeping, 
like  that  of  Eachel  over  her  children,  and  are  overcome  by 


12  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

the  sorrows  of  the  great  in  genius,  but  greater  still  in  mis- 
fortune. 

Such  are  the  hours  to  whose  passion  we  yield,  when,  hav- 
ing followed  the  winding  Avon  far  from  sweet  Stratford,  we 
stand  at  last  in  Bristol,  fellow  pilgrims  to  the  birth-place  of 
Chatterton,  and  meet  in  sympathy  with  that  ill-fated  one, 
whom  even  Shakespeare  would  have  owned  as  a  johit  heir  of 
fame. — Such  are  the  hours  when  we  stand  beneath  the  shadow 
of  old  Saint  Mary  Kedcliffe — Avhen  we  pace  her  hallowed 
courts,  amid  the  echo  of  vaulted  tombs — -when  we  gaze  on 
her  storied  marbles,  bowing  the  while,  with  reverent  heart, 
to  the  genius  of  Chatterton,  the  Child  Bard  of  that  ancient 
church. 

Nor  was  old  Saint  INIary  forgotten  when  we,  not  less  reve- 
rent, wandered  through  the  antique  treasures  of  the  British 
Museum,  admiring  the  friezes  from  the  Parthenon,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  memorials  from  Pompeii  on  the  other;  for 
amid  these  witnesses  for  the  past,  her  name  has  been  in- 
scribed by  the  pale  boy  nurtured  in  her  crypt.  He,  whose 
solitary  feet  once  paced  her  cloisters  during  brief  hours  of 
holiday,  or^mid  the  long  watches  of  the  night,  drank  in  the 
moonlight  through  her  mullioned  windows,  or  dreamed  sad 
and  mysterious  dreams,  while  sleeping  beneath  some  knightly 
ofTigy — he,  a  faitliful  son,  has  consecrated  her,  even  in  tins 
place  of  mighty  memories.  Therefore  did  we,  while  wander- 
ina  through  halls  and  cabinets,  gaze  with  wonder  at  the  Yel- 
low  Roll  and  otliers  of  the  Chatterton  manuscripts.  They 
were  once  the  enigmas  of  the  literary  world;  and  though  that 
enigma  be  now  solved,  they  still  witness  for  a  genius  whom 
in  his  youth  a  serpent  stung.  That  genius  was  Thomas 
Chatterton,   and  that  serpent  was   Infidelity.     And   old 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  13 

Saint  Mary  gave  inspiration  to  the  marvellous  boy,  Avho  in 
her  courts  inhaled  the  spirit  of  the  past — learning  to  love  dim 
black-letter  parchments,  and  feeding  his  morbid  yet  soaring 
intellect  on  the  splendors  of   bygone  romance. 

The  family  had  for  many  generations  flourished  beneath 
Saint  Mary's  patronage — for  nearly  two  centuries,  indeed, 
had  enjoyed  the  office  of  sexton.  The  spade,  the  mattock, 
and  all  the  appointments  of  sepulture,  were  bequeathed  from 
father  to  son,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time  they  were,  in  their 
turn,  borne  to  graves  in  the  midst  of  those  which  their  own 
hands  had  digged;  but  among  these  changes  old  Saint  Mary 
stood  the  same  to  all — kind,  watchful,  and  protective,  even 
doAvn  to  little  Thomas,  the  last  of  the  direct  lineage. 

In  1748  John  Ohatterton  .was  gathered  to  a  place  of  rest 
in  the  very  scene  of  his  life-long  labors,  and  once  more  old 
Saint  Mary  beheld  her  sexton  laid  to  sleep  with  his  fathers, ' 
and  once  more  her  plaint  was  heard,  knelled  forth  from  the 
dusty  tower,  as  from  the  depths  of  a  mother's  heart.  He 
was  the  last  of  that  race  who  held  that  time-honored  office. 
In  four  years  Thomas  Chatterton,  his  nephew,  was  also  laid 
in  the  grave.  He.was  a  man  of  respectable  education,  the 
chorister  of  the  cathedral,  and  master  of  the  free  school.  In 
three  months  after  his  death,  and  while  desolation  was  cover- 
ing  her  soul  with  its  pall,  his  widow  becomes  a  mother.  A 
babe  is  born,  to  share  her  bitter  portion;  and  thou,  O  Saint 
Mary,  the  patron  of  former  generations,  didst  receive  tlie 
lorn  one,  as  in  her  widow's  weeds  she  bears  the  orj)han  to 
thy  bosom.  And  thou  didst  gaze  with  pity  on  the  marvel- 
lous infant,  now  to  be  baptised  at  thine  altar,  and  soon  to 
repay  thy  patronage  with  fame. 

And  yet  Thomas  was  a  dull  boy,  until  a  sight  broke  upon 


14  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

him,  which  called  forth  the  longings  of  a  soul,  in  which  the 
past  dwelt  as  by  inspiration.  In  the  words  of  his  mother, 
"  He  fell  in  love  with  the  capitals  of  an  old  manuscript,"  and 
from  that  hour  his  dulness  vanished. 

In  his  eighth  year  the  lad  was  consigned  to  a  charity  school, 
where  stupidity  and  severity  were  exercised,  as  they  were 
wont  to  be,  in  that  iron  age;  and  imprisoned  in  this  juvenile 
penitentiary,  and  deprived  of  communion  with  mother  and 
home,  except  a  few  hours  of  a  Saturday  or  Saints-day,  the 
unfortunate  child  passed  seven  years. 

Crushing,  indeed,  upon  all  that  makes  boyhood  joyous, 
must  have  been  the  nine  hours  of  daily  study :  dry  and  hate- 
ful tasks,  uncheered  by  kindness,  and  only  relieved  by  an 
early  bed.  Religion,  instead  of  appearing  in  winning  and 
gentle  aspect,  here  put  on  the  garb  of  grim  formalism ;  and  the 
tender  counsels  of  a  parental  roof  were  changed  for  cruel  pun- 
ishment, and  hardly  less  cruel  discipline.  Yet  beneath  an  influ- 
ence so  baleful  and  withering,  a  genius  was  being  developed. 

There  are  few  scenes  which  so  combine  the  beautiful  and 
the  saddening  as  the  gambols  of  childhood;  for,  as  one  gazes 
on  its  ardent  joys,  he  cannot  but  sigh  to  think  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  future,  and  its  contingencies  or  certainties  of 
woe.  Who  can  deny  that  emotion  which  the  meditative 
Gray  has  woven  into  verse  1* 

"  Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  wanderers  play — 
No  thought  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  cares  beyond  to-day; 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait, 
The  messengers  of  human  fate, 

*  Ode  to  Eton  College. 


THE  YOUNG  EBADER.  15 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train ; 
Oh,  shew  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band — 

Oh,  tell  them  they  are  men. 

"  These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear — 

The  vultures  of  the  mind : 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame,  that  skulks  behind ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  Jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth. 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care  — 

Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart." 

Nor  could  dame  Chatterton  have  been  free  from  deep  anx- 
iety, as  she  watched  the  progress  of  her  incomprehensible 
boy.  At  ten,  his  scanty  allowance  of  pocket-money,  instead 
of  finding  its  way  to  the  confectioner,  is  devoted  to  the  cir- 
culating library.  Between  his  eleventh  and  twelfth  years  he 
has  made  a  catalogue  of  the  books  he  had  read,  to  the  num- 
ber of  seventy — principally  of  history  and  divinity.  Instead 
of  mingling  with  the  games  of  his  companions,  he  retires  at 
the  hour  of  play  with  his  book ;  and  sometimes,  for  days  to- 
gether, will  seem  lost  in  contemplation.  Then,  as  the  spirit 
works  within  him,  his  burning  brain  coins  withering  satire, 
and  his  soul,  proud  and  gloomy  as  the  imprisoned  eagle,  pours 
forth  its  bitter  torrent,  until,  having  been  relieved  of  its  bur- 
den, it  becomes,  for  a  time,  cheerful.  With  such  poetic 
attempts,  dating  from  his  twelfth  year,  began  that  unhappy 
literary  career,  which  at  eighteen  was  to  end  in  untimely 
death. 

It  was  a  favorite  expression  with  him,  that  "God  had  sent 


16  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

his  creatures  in  the  world  with  arms  long  enough  to  reach 
anything — if  they  chose  to  be  at  the  trouble." 

Often,  during  holidays,  he  would  retire  to  a  little  room, 
which  he  called  his  own,  shutting  himself  in,  and  forbidding 
intrusion.  Here  he  would  remain  for  hours,  oblivious  of 
meals;  and  making  his  appearance,  when  summoned,  bcgriined 
with  ochre,  charcoal,  and  black  lead.  No  doubt,  even  then, 
the  elements  of  his  dramas  were  taking  shape,  and  Ella  and 
Bawdin  were  preparing  to  live  on  the  page  which  should  be 
traced  in  the  coming  leisure  of  his  apprenticeship. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  the  boy  was  translated  from  the  school 
prison  to  an  attorney's  office;  and  Mr.  John  Lambert,  in 
consideration  of  a  fee  of  ten  pounds,  receives  the  mysterious 
apprentice — to  board,  clothe  and  instruct  him,  while  the  mo- 
ther is  to  wash  and  mend.  He  is  to  lodge  with  the  foot-})oy — 
to  attend  in  the  office  twelve  hours  per  day,  and  to  have  from 
eight  to  ten  in  the  evening  for  amusement.  These  terms  ap- 
pear severe — but  they  were  redeemed  by  the  abundant  leisure 
affiirded  for  his  favorite  studies  of  heraldry  and  antiquities. 

Yet  the  connection  was  at  best  infelicitous.  Lambert  is 
said  to  have  been  both  ignorant  and  imperious,  and  to  have 
subjected  his  clerk  to  insult,  because  of  his  melancholy  and 
poetic  disposition.  He,  however,  on  the  other  hand,  reports 
"Thomas"  to  have  been  "gloomy  and  sullen" — especially  to- 
ward the  servants.  But  how  could  such  a  mind  abide  the 
society  of  footboys  and  coachmen  1  Those  fits  oi'  sullenness 
and  stupidity  of  wliicli  lie  was  accused — that  total  abstrac- 
tion— those  intervals  of  silence,  when  "with  difficulty  he 
could  be  got  to  make  answer  to  an  inquiry" — as  his  sister 
says,  "  for  days  he  would  say  very  little,  and  that  apparently 
by  constraint" — those  moods,  wherein  he  would  sit  and  weep 


AN  ANONYMOUS  LAMPOON.  17 

for  hours,  without  assigning  cause — were  nothing  less  than 
the  throes  of  parturient  genius.  Hence  he  was  loud  in  his 
complaints  of  Lambert,  and  he  shrunk  from  the  society  into 
which  he  was  cast.  If  the  master  tore  up  his  poetry  and 
threw  contempt  on  his  muse,  but  little  better  could  be 
expected  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  the  inspired  boy  re- 
treated into  his  own  invisible  world,  and  betrayed  by  scornful 
smile  and  curling  li]5  his  contempt  for  his  vulgar  associates. 
His  mind  indeed  was  growing  antique,  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  Rowley — it  was  buried  among  the  cobwebs  and  parch- 
ments of  past  centuries ;  and  visions  of  ghostly  friars,  and 
shaven  monks,  and  stately  kniglits,  swept  through  his  feverish 
imagiuation. 

Yet,  as  a  proof  of  his  industry  in  the  office,  there  is  still 
extant  a  folio  book  of  law  forms,  in  his  own  hand-writing,  of 
three  hundred,  and  thirty-four  closely  written  pages ;  and  if 
he  dreamed  of  mighty  deeds  of  yore,  it  is  evident  that  he  still 
bore  his  share  of  drudgery,  impatient  though  he  might  have 
been  of  such  durance. 

The  first  effort  which  attracted  notice,  while  in  the  attor- 
ney's office,  was  an  anonymous  lampoon  on  his  former  school- 
master; it  was  easily  traced  to  its  author,  from  its  identity 
with  the  office  foolscap,  and  his  sarcastic  muse  was  rewarded 
by  a  cuffing  from  the  tyrannical  Lambert.  But  in  the  course 
of  a  year  a  paper  from  his  pen  tln-ew  not  merely  the  little 
school,  but  all  Bristol  in  a  ferment.  The  new  bridge  across 
the  Avon  had  just  been  completed,  and  while  the  public  was 
alive  upon  the  subject,  there  appeared  in  Farley's  Bristol 
Journal  a  fragment,  with  the  date  and  in  the  garb  of  tlie 
eleventh  century,  giving  a  quaint  description  of  the  opening 
of  the  old  bridge,  and  the  "Fryar's  March,"  with  other  cere- 


18  THE  CHILD  BAED. 

monies.  So  curious  a  paper  could  not  fail  at  this  interesting 
moment  to  command  immediate  notice — the  Journal  office 
was  besieged  by  eager  and  astonished  antiquaries,  and  the 
description  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  through  gossiping 
and  excited  groups.  But  where  was  the  original  ? — who  liad 
discovered  it  1 — where  had  it  lain  six  hundred  years,  to  be 
found  just  when  most  wanted?  All  these  inquiries  were  met 
by  the  simple  fact,  as  was  subsequently  ascertained,  that  the 
manuscript  had  been  furnished  by  the  attorney's  clerk,  Avho 
no  doubt  sat  laughing  heartily  the  while  in  Lambert's  office. 
One  happy  day,  at  last,  for  thee.  Oh,  Thomas  the  wonderful ! 
thou  hast  all  Bristol  in  aching  curiosity  at  thy  cunning  page ! 
The  youth  was  sought  out,  and  the  overbearing  spirit  of  his 
inquisitors — wlio  treated  him  as  a  child — developed  on  his 
part  surprising  hauteur ;  but  being  afterwards  mildly  solicit- 
ed for  an  account  of  this  stranije  fragment,  he  stated  that  it 
was  one  of  a  number  of  ancient  parchments  which  a  gentle- 
man had  employed  him  to  transcribe.  We  here  note  his 
early  proclivity  to  deception ;  for  ujion  further  inquiries,  he 
contradicts  himself  by  stating  that  lie  had  received  the  paper, 
together  with  some  others,  from  his  father,  who  had  found 
them  in  a  large  chest,  in  the  room  over  the  chapel,  on  the 
north  side  of  St.  Mary's. 

A  clearer  statement  is  made  by  jMr,  Bryant  in  his  observa- 
tions on  the  Rowley  poems;  from  which  we  learn  that  over 
the  north  part  of  the  church  was  a  muniment  room,  contain- 
ing six  or  seven  chests,  one  of  whicli  in  particular  was  called 
"  Mr.  Caiiyng's  Cofre."  This  chest  was  secured  by  six  keys, 
which  in  process  of  time  ]ia<l  been  lost.  About  fiily  years 
previously  the  lockshad  been  broken  imderthe  town  authority, 
and  certain  deeds  of  value  had  been  removed;  but  the  lai-ger 


CATCOTT  AND  BARRETT.  19 

portion  of  the  parchments  were  left.  Most  of  these  were  sub- 
sequently carried  off  by  Chatterton's  father,  who  used  them 
to  cover  his  books.  One  day  the  eye  of  the  boy  antiquary 
was  caught  by  the  black-letter  manuscripts,  and  he  began  to 
question  his  mother  as  to  what  they  were,  and  whence  they 
came.  As  he  examined  their  contents  he  told  her  that  he 
had  found  treasures;  and  she  states  that  after  that  he  was 
perpetually  ransacking  every  corner  of  the  house,  and  from 
time  to  time  carried  away  the  fragments  by  pockets  full. 

It  was  frpm  these  that  the  youth  pretended  to  have  obtain- 
ed the  "  Fryar's  March,"  at  the  opening  of  the  old  bridge. 
This  publication  not  only  startled  all  Bristol  but  brought  the 
gifted  boy  to  the  patronage  of  Messrs.  Catcott  and  Barrett, 
two  gentlemen  of  antiquarian  taste.  They  supplied  him  witli 
small  sums  of  money  as  a  compensation  for  some  waifs  of  a 
strange  poem  which  he  produced  as  the  work  of  one  "  Thomas 
Rowley,"  a  priest  of  the  15th  century ;  but  which  in  reality 
sprang  from  the  brain  of  the  poor  attorney's  clerk,  and  Avas 
penned  by  his  ingenious  hand  in  antique  cipher. 

His  sister  Mary  says  that  after  his  acquaintance  with  these 
gentlemen  his  ambition  daily  increased,  and  he  frequently 
spoke  in  raptures  of  the  undoubted  success  of  his  plans  for 
future  life.  Their  libraries  afforded  him  a  bountiful  supply  of 
reading,  and  on  one  day  he  might  be  found  deep  in  heraldry 
and  antiquities — the  next,  lost  in  metaphysical  subtleties,  or 
laboring  through  the  problems  of  Euclid;  while  music,  as- 
tronomy, and  even  medicine  were  not  neglected. 

Whatever  he  attempted  was  with  the  deepest  fervor  and 
enthusiasm.  "He  was,"  says  Smith,  "  always  fond  of  walking 
in  the  fields  and  talking  about  these  manuscripts.  '  Come,' 
he  would  say  to  me,  '  you  and  I  will  take  a  walk  into  the 


20  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

meadow — I  have  got  the  cleverest  thing  imaginaltle ;  it  is 
worth  a  half  crown  merely  to  have  a  sight  of  it,'  He  would 
frequently  lie  down  and  fix  his  eyes  on  the  church,  and  seem 
as  if  he  were  in  a  trance;  then  on  a  sudden  he  would  tell  me 
'  that  steeple  was  burned  down  by  lightning,  and  that  was  the 
place  where  they  acted  plays.'" 

Says  one-  of  h5s  companions :  "  I  well  remember  Chatterton's 
philosophical  gravity  of  countenance,  and  the  keen  lightning 
of  his  eye ;"  and  his  sister  adds,  that  "when  in  spirits  he  would 
enjoy  his  rising  fame,"  whose  glory  chased  away  the  slumbers 
of  boyhood,  and  fired  his  genius  during  the  long  vigils  of 
moonlight. 

That  such  a  mind  could  ill  brook  the  drudgery  of  a  law  of- 
fice is  not  surprising.  Yet  it  is  lamentable  that  the  imagina- 
tive and  the  ambitious  so  often  spurn  the  plodding  paths 
which  industry  opens  to  wealth,  and  even  to  fame,  and 
sink  at  last  under  broken  pride  and  disappointment ;  it  is  an 
error  which  has  wrecked  multitudes.  How  long  will  it  be 
before  our  high-toned  and  aspiring  youth  will  learn  that  lit- 
erature and  labor  may  go  hand  in  hand,  and  that  plodding 
toil  is  the  friend  rather  than  the  foe  of  genius  1  Indeed,  some 
of  the  loftiest  and  most  brilliant  names  in  our  literature  have 
been  chained  through  life  to  arduous  professions.  Milton 
was  State  Secretary  under  Cromwell.  Talfourd  and  Warren 
were  laborious  attorneys,  and  sad  indeed  was  the  error  of 
the  young  bard  of  Saint  INIary's  when  he  despised  a  similar 
profession.  Had  he  lived  to  a  ripc>r  age,  and  under  hajipier 
influences,  he  would  have  learned  that  few  find  such  exquisite 
delight  in  the  service  of  the  muses  as  those  who  court  them 
in  the  scanty  seasons  snatched  from  toil.  It  was  thus  that 
one   whose  bread  was  earned  by  commercial  drudgery  ex- 


CHATTERTON  WRITES  TO  WALPOLE.  21 

changed  in  leisure  hours  the  ledgers  of  the  India  House  for  the 
dearer  pages  of  Elia,  and  conquered  the  admiration  of  critics 
and  reviewers  for  the  name  and  genius  of  Charles  Lamb. 

Chatterton's  disgust  with  his  condition  now  constrained  him 
CO  many  efforts  to  extricate  himself.  Not  content  with  his 
correspondence  with  London  booksellers,  he  ventured  an  ap- 
plication to  Horace  Walpole,  the  would-be  Mecaenas  of  his 
day.  He  wrote  to  the  patronising  nobleman  that  treasures 
of  ancient  poetry  had  been  discovered  at  Bristol,  and  enclosed 
several  fragments,  such  as  had  won  his  fellow  antiquaries. 
These,  however,  were  at  once  pronounced  forgeries  by  Mason 
and  Gray,  whose  acumen  was  superior  to  that  of  Cateott  and 
Barret;  but  Walpole,  while  convinced  of  the  imposition, 
"could  not,"  as  he  confesses,  "but  admire  the  spirit  of  po- 
etry which  breathed  through  the  rejected  waifs."  This  attempt 
upon  Walpole  brings  before  us  more  closely  that  singular 
feature  In  Chatterton's  character,  the  practice  of  literary  im- 
position. It  had,  from  years  of  cultivation,  become  a  passion, 
and  one  not  without  a  plea.  Alas!  it  was  the  sacrifice 
which  pride  demanded  even  of  truth — it  was  the  secret  incense 
which  he  offered  to  the  divinity  that  dwelt  within,  and  it  was 
the  only  tribute  which  his  genius  received,  till  tribute  came 
too  late. 

Imposture  is  with  some  a  gift.  *  Such  possess,  as  by  in- 
stinct, the  command  of  human  credulity,  and  weave  at  will  their 
net-work  of  deception.  Thus  was  endowed  the  Child  Bard 
of  Bristol.  But  Chatterton  soared  far  above  mere  game  upon 
confidence.  His  grasp  was  as  great  upon  the  intellect  as  up- 
on the  credulity,  and  he  possessed  the  arts  of  compelling 
history,  and  heraldry,  and  romance,  and  song,  to  unite  in  the 
most  sublime  deceptions.     It  was  this  unheard-of  gift,  whose 


22  THE  CniLD  BARD. 

first  exercise  may  have  arisen  from  want  or  timidity,  which 
now  brought  forth  the  boldest  of  all  literary  forgeries. 

Next  to  the  "  Fryar's  March,"  we  have  that  curious  and 
perplexing  play  upon  heraldry,  the  "De  Burghum  Arms  and 
Pedigree."  It  appears  that  a  worthy  pewterer  of  Bristol,  whose 
sign  had  long  borne  the  name  of  Burgum,  was  one  day  visited 
by  the  boy  antiquary,  with  the  astounding  news  that  he,  so  far 
from  being  a  plebeian  artisan,  was  a  scion  of  a  most  illustrious 
house — nay,  that  the  very  blood  of  earls  flowed  through  his 
veins.     The  pewterer  was  at  first  overwhelmed,  but  at  length 
yielded  to  the  pleasing  tale,  and  his  rising  ambition  is  soon 
greeted  by  a  number  of  ancient  parchments,  rich  with  blazonry 
and  quartered  arms,  all  submitted  to  him  by  the  curious  lad. 
The  parchments  pursued  the  research  from  the  reign  of  Charles 
Second  to  that  of  William  the  Conqueror,  where,  in  "De 
Burghum,  Earl  of  Northampton,"  the  delighted  pewterer  finds 
his  ancestor.     The  De  Burghum  Pedigree  is  one  of  the  mar- 
vels of  heraldry.     It  fills  forty  printed  pages,  and  exhibits 
such  a  familiarity  with  the  details  of  that  science  as  must  sur- 
prise even  an  expert.     Alas !  it  was  a  sheer  fiction,  coined  by 
the  attorney's  clerk  of  sixteen,  in  whose  very  existence  the 
gauds  and  blazonry  of  the  peerage  were  interwoven.    The  pew- 
terer  enjoyed  the  brief  glory  of  noble  blood,  so  exalted  in 
the  view  of  the  plebeian  English,  until  on  application  to  the 
Ollice  of  Heraldry  in  London  for  confirmation,  the  splendid 
dream  was  dissolved.     These  attempts,  however,  were  but 
the  earnest  of  a  loftier    effort,    in   which    the   very    muses 
should  appear   in   mask,  while  the  young   magician  of  the 
eighteenth  century  should  summon  past  ages  to  reveal  their 
feats  and  their  heroes  before  awe-smitten  antiquaries. 

And  now  in  rapid  succession  appeared  the  "  Rowley  Poems," 


YOUTHFUL  GENIUS.  23 

those  great  enigmas,  which  so  intensely  vexed  the  literary 
world,  long  after  their  hapless  author  was  mouldering  m  a 
paupers  shell. 

The  attorney's  clerk  had  created  the  august  myth  of  Thomas 
Rowley,  priest  and  bard  of  Bristol,  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
His  works,  embracing  poems  and  dramas  of  rare  power  and 
sublimity,  had  been  hitherto  lost  to  the  world.  Age  after 
age  they  had  lain  in  the  chambers  of  old  Saint  Mary's,  their 
beauties  ruthlessly  buried  in  the  mysterious  cofre  amid  mould- 
ering parchments.  In  presenting  this  startling  discovery, 
the  youth  never  produced  the  original  manuscripts,  except  in 
occasional  fragments,  whose  antique  text  sustained  the  interest- 
ing story.  They  appeared  in  the  clear  copies  which  he 
wrought  from  that  mass  of  parchments,  whose  damp  and 
blackened  pages  were  only  sho^vn  to  a  select  few. 

Among  the  poems  now  produced  in  rapid  succession,  were 
the  "Parliament  of  Sprites,"  and  "  The  Tournament,"  a  series 
of  stately  scenes  from  the  days  of  England's  chivalry,  with 
knightly  jousts  and  thrilling  deeds  of  arms.  Tlien  came 
"  The  Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,"  a  ballad  of  heroic  cha- 
racter, yet  breathing  the  most  exquisite  tenderness.  The  next 
is  "  Ella,  a  Tragical  Interlude,"  which  indicates  a  high  degree 
of  dramatic  genius.  Following  these^is  "  Godwin,  a  Tragedy ;" 
and  after  some  shorter  but  not  less  brilliant  productions,  we 
have  "The  Battle  of  Hastings."  Thirteen  hundred  lines  are 
filled  with  vivid  combats  and  episodes  illustrating  that  famous 
field.  Had  we  space  for  extracts  we  might  show,  as  has  Avell 
been  remarked,  "that  that  afflatus  which  is  vainly  sought  for 
in  the  multitude  of  elaborate  prize  poets  was  the  daily  breath 
of  the  marvellous  boy,"*  and  though  bare  sixteen,  he  is  not 


*  Blackwood's  Magazine. 


24  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

far  behind  the  "Wind  old  man  of  Chios'  rocky  isle,"  in  the 
Homeric  poetry  of  action. 

Says  Gardner,  one  of  his  associates,  "I  heard  him  once  af- 
firm that  it  was  very  easy  for  a  person  who  had  studied  an- 
tiquity, with  the  aid  of  a  few  books,  which  he  could  name,  tc 
copy  the  style  of  the  ancient  poets  so  exactly  that  the  most 
skillful  observer  should  not  be  able  to  detect  them; — *no,' 
said  he,  'not  even  Mr.  Walpole  himself  Once  I  saw  him 
rub  a  piece  of  parchment  with  ochre,  and  afterwards  rub  it 
on  the  ground,  saying  that  was  the  way  to  antiquate  it — 
afterwards  he  crumpled  it  with  his  hand;  he  said  it  would 
do  pretty  well,  but  he  could  do  it  better  if  he  were  at 
home." 

His  sister  Mary  says,  "My  brother  read  me  the  poem  on 
the  church;  after  he  read  it  several  times,  I  insisted  on  it 
that  he  had  made  it — he  begged  to  know  what  reason  I  had 
to  think  so;  I  added,  his  style  was  easily  discovered  in  that 
poem;  he  replied,  'I  confess  I  made  this,  but  don't  you  say 
anything  about  it.'" 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Thistlewaite,  his  friend,  who 
never  doubted  the  authenticity  of  Rowley,  says,  "During  the 
year  1768,  at  divers  visits  I  made  him,  I  found  him  employed 
in  copying  Rowley,  from  what  I  then  considered,  and  do  now 
consider,  as  authentic  and  undoubted  originals.  By  the  as- 
sistance he  received  from  the  Glossary  of  Chaucer,  he  was  en- 
'abled  to  read,  with  great  facility,  even  the  most  difficult  of 
them.  Among  others  I  remember  to  have  read  several  stan- 
zas copied  from  the  "  Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,"  the  ori- 
ginal of  which  then  lay  before  him.  The  beautiful  simplicity, 
animation  and  pathos  that  so  abundantly  prevail  through  the 
course  of  that  poem  made  a  lasting  impression  on  my  mem- 
ory." 


VAGARIES  OF  GENIUS.  25 

And  these  flights,  which  so  long  commanded  the  wonder  of 
critic  and  antiquary,  were  the  office  reveries  of  the  attorney's 
clerk,  before  his  seventeenth  year !  In  that  office  he  had  found 
an  old  copy  of  Camden's  Britannia,  and  from  a  bookseller  he 
obtained  a  loan  of  a  black-letter  Chaucer ;  by  means  of  these 
and  other  volumes  he  clothed  the  plain  English  of  his  muse 
with  the  venerable  garb  and  quaintness  of  the  past. 

Absorbed  in  his  epics,  we  find  all.  things  made  subservient 
to  its  progress.  His  diet  was  voluntarily  straitened,  and 
when  his  mother  would  tempt  him  with  a  hot  meal,  his  reply 
was  "he  had  a  work  on  hand,  and  must  not  make  himself 
more  stupid  than  God  had  made  him." 

And  his  sister  reveals  the  economy  of  his  time:  "He  sel- 
dom slept,"  says  she,  "and  we  heard  him  say  that  he  found 
he  studied  best  toward  the  full  of  the  moon,  and  would  often 
sit  up  all  night  and  write  by  moonllglitP 

In  the  meantime  these  peculiarities  became  the  subject  of 
remark.  Ilis  pride  was  excessive;  for  days  together  he 
would  scarce  utter  a  word — entering  and  departing  his  master's 
house  without  addressing  one  of  its  inmates,  and  occupyino- 
his  stool  in  the  oflice  with  no  notice  of  his  fellow  clerks,  save  a 
smile  of  contempt.  His  fits  of  absence  and  abstraction  were 
so  remarkable  that  it  was  the  general  impression  that  he  was 
going  mad,  especially  as  he  would  often  look  one  in  the  face 
without  speaking,  or  seeming  even  to  see  him  for -a  lono- 
time. 

Madness,  indeed!  it  was  the  convulsions  of  imprisoned 
genius — its  struggles  for  emancipation  and  life !  There,  in  his 
drawer,  lay  the  mysterious  sheets  of  Rowley,  in  which  he  found 
his  true  existence — and  these,  of  which  he  hardly  dare  speak, 
and  still  less  claim,  were  crying  for  birth. 

2 


26  ■  THE  CHILD  BARD, 

These  were  the  secret  of  those  abstractions  -which  had  made 
him,  M'hile  yet  a  lad,  the  marvel  of  Bristol.  O,  charmed  boy ! 
what  dreams  are  those  which  pour  their  magic  stream  through 
thy  throbbing  brain?  The  moon  has  east  its  silver  radiance 
on  the  dark  mantle  of  nijrht,  bathing  all  nature  in  witchinij 
loveliness.  Sleep  flies  the  brow  crimsoned  with  Promethean 
fire;  he  springs  from  his  lowly  pallet,  and  paces  down  the 
silent  street  until  once  more  he  faces  old  St.  Mary  Redcliffc. 
She  smiles  upon  him — a  blessed  mother,  all  genial  with  the 
moon's  SAveet  lustre,  and  shimmering  in  the  solemn  noon 
of  night.  lie  Avalks  her  aisles — all  is  peaceful — yet  all  is  life. 
He  gazes  on  the  monuments  until  the  sculptured  forms  descend 
and  unfold  their  quaint  and  thrilling  history.  The  moon  hath 
filled  St.  JNfary  with  its  radiance,  dim,  holy  and  inspiring. 
All  things  dance  together  in  his  reeling  brain.  Oh,  what 
dreams  are  these  which  now  pour  their  magic  stream  through 
the  fevered  intellect !  He  sees  the  saintly  form  of  Rowley, 
all  venerable  with  years — with  cowled  monks  and  melodious 
choirs  laying  St.  Mary's  corner  stone.  He  sees  the  stately 
fane  slowly  ascend,  until  crowned  by  the  fulness  of  its  primal 
beauty  it  is  consecrated  amid  clouds  of  incense  and  bursting 
chaunts  and  the  hushed  breathings  of  the  adoring  multitude. 

He  dreams !  behold  the  stately  tournament — gorgeous  ban- 
ners flout  the  sky,  gentle  dames  of  queenly  beauty  grace  the 
terraced  seats,  while  knights,  armed  cap-a-pie,  prance  through 
the  spacious  field.  It  is  a  vision  of  old  England's  chivalry 
efllorescing  in  all  the  splendor  of  romance;  each  champion,  in 
burnished  steel,  announced  by  herald's  blast,  casts  down  his 
defiant  glove,  whicli,  when  caught  upon  some  spear,  bids  tlu'ir 
ramping  steeds  rush  to  tlie  tilt,  beneath  the  glance  of  lady 
love. 


DANGER  DEVELOPED.  27 

lie  dreams!  and  from,  the  tomb  which  six  centuries  has 
sealed,  a  mien  of  lofty  sorrow  appears  to  renew  appalling 
woe — it  is  Harold,  gory  with  his  own  blood.  Now  Hastings' 
field  repeats  its  fatal  defeat;  now  the  dawn  beholds  the  serried 
squadrons,  in  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war — now 
they  press  to  the  charge — the  air  is  rife  with  shouts  and 
groans  and  the  clang  of  ringing  steel — then  the  cloth-yard 
shaft  wings  in  hurtling  clouds,  till  at  last  night  hides  the  lost 
battle  in  agonies  of  shame  and  despair. 

He  dreams!  the  bursting  brain  cries  for  relief — and  there, 
beneath  the  moon's  cold  beams,  he  sits  upon  the  chill  mai'ble 
slab ;  now  the  grey  eye  flashes  and  the  brow  expands — the 
dream  shall  live,  and  thus  inspired,  he  fills  the  enchanted  page. 

Such  was  the  Child  Bard  of  Bristol,  and  we  cannot  wonder 
that  in  the  sublime  self-consciousness  of  genius  he  should  chafe 
for  a  wider  sphere,  or  that  his  deathless  ambition  burned  for 
the  mastery  in  the  great  centre  of  the  literary  world.  Indeed, 
he  who  had  conquered  the  style  and  antiquities  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  clothed  in  that  undetected  garb  his  splendid 
dreams,  might  well  aspire  to  name  and  rank  even  in  thronged 
and  tumultuous  London. 

But  we  have  viewed  Chatterton  not  so  much  in  respect  to 
intellect  as  to  infidelity;  and  here  for  the  first  time  we  are 
compelled  to  meet  this  fatal  element  in  his  character.  When 
he  received  the  seeds  we  cannot  learn,  but  they  had  sprung  up 
to  an  early  maturity.*     In  1769,  while  but  in  his  seventeenth 

*  There  is  a  great  deal  of  infidelitj'  in  young  people,  and  you  have 
many  of  them  about  you.  Tell  them  from  me  that  I  have  read  a  great 
many  sceptical  books — ancient  and  modern,  of  all  sorts.  It  is  all  very 
fine,  but  fallacious ;  they  are  very  plausible,  but  can  give  no  consolation 
in  a  dying  hour. — Dying  Words  of  Dr.  Gordon,  of  Jlall,  to  his  Pastor, 


28  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

year,  it  appears  from  a  poem  on  "  Happiness,"  addressed  to 
Mr.  Catcott,  that  liis  mind  Avas  thoroughly  poisoned;  "heaven 
send  you,"  he  writes,  "tlie  comforts  of  Christianity — I  ask 
them  not,  for  I  am  no  Christian."  At  that  day,  infidelity  was 
deplorably  fashionable — to  profess  even  a  nominal  Christianity 
was  to  incur  peril  of  public  contempt,  and  might  reasonal)ly 
have  been  viewed  as  a  social  martyrdom.  Indeed,  Bishop 
Butler  states,  in  the  preface  to  "The  Analogy,"  that  "religion 
had  at  that  day  ceased  to  be  discussed,  and  was  commonly 

* 

viewed  as  an  exploded  affair."  The  gentry  and  the  nobility 
held  serious  matters  in  polite  indifference;  and  if  urged  upon 
the  subject,  pointed  significantly  to  their  book  shelves,  where 
Bolingbroke  and  Shaftesbury  represented  the  end  of  all  con- 
troversy. The  world  of  art  and  letters  breathed  the  same 
spirit,  and  the  famous  literary  club,  with  its  Garriek,  Rey- 
nolds, Langton,  Beauclerk,  Goldsmith  and  Johnson,  had  few, 
besides  the  last,  to  resist  the  broad  current  of  unbelief.  Even 
the  historic  pen,  in  the  hands  of  Hume  and  Gibbon,  subserved 
error.  Poetry  too,  seemed  spell-bound  to  the  same  evil  ser- 
vice, and  the  author  of^-the  "  Essay  on  Man"  was"  the  acknow- 
ledged rhymer  of  Deism.  How  Johnson  was  preserved  from 
a  similar  perversion,  while  breathing  year  after  year  so 
poisoned  an  atmosphere,  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  Grace. 

Yet,  though  it  may  find  occasional  apologists  in  the  ranks  of 
science  and  learning,  it  is  nevertheless  true  tliat  infidelity  is 
generally  the  disease  of  the  immature  mind.  It  may  some- 
times cling  to  the  cultured  and  aesthetic,  but  it  will  more  often 
take  root  in  the  half-formed  intellect  of  youth.  It  stancfe 
allied  to  its^aser  passions,  and  it  boasts  of  the  false  glory 
of  a  specious  liberty  as  it  rejects  truths  which  cUain  the  mind 
to  sobriety  and  dcconnn. 


DEGRADATION  OP  LITERATURE.  29 

A  little  learning  is  a  powerful  stimulant  to  vanity,  and 
vanity  is  a  fitting  soil  for  the  foul  seed  of  error.  Let  but  the 
malignant  flippancy  of  Voltaire,  or  the  sophistry  of  Hume,  or 
the  coarse  lampoons  of  Paine  be  broadcast  there,  and  the 
quiet  truths  of  Christianity  will  be  strangled  for  a  time,  and 
perhaps  forever.  As  scepticism  and  licentiousness  are  closely 
allied,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  absence  of  a  pure  religious 
sentiment  had  degraded  English  literature  to  a  hideous  depth 
of  obscenity.  There  were  but  few  popular  writers  whose 
pages  would  not  at  the  present  time  be  rejected  on  this  score. 
Chureliill,  the  leading  wit  of  the  day,  was  an  apostate  clergy- 
man, and  penned  the  filthiest  though  most  pungent  of  satires; 
while  the  "  Essay  on  Woman,"  by  John  Wilkes,  was  burned 
hy  the  hangman.  Fiction  too,  as  well  as  satire,  derived 
its  interest  from  licentiousness ;  for  this  was  the  zest  which 
could  redeem  dulness,  and  which  found  universal  market. 
Thus,  the  "Town  and  Country,"  a  popular  monthly,  owed 
its  success  mainly  to  that  episode  of  adultery,  which  with 
portraits  of  each  party,  under  the  title  of  t9te-a-tete,  garnished 
every  number.  Such  being  the  public  taste,  we  are  not 
surprised,  while  we  deeply  regret,  that  the  splendor  of  Chat- 
terton's  genius  is  occasionally  marred  by  this  revolting 
feature. 

But  far  more  deplorable  even  than  this,  is  that  error  which 
now  casts  upon  us  its  shadow.  One  of  the  first  fruits  of 
infidelity  is  contempt  of  life,  and  an  unnatural  proclivity  to 
self-slaughter.  It  appears  that,  even  Mhile  living  with  Lam- 
bert, Chatterton  had  intimated  a  design  of  suicide.  Lambert 
could  not  bi'lieve  his  clerk  to  be  in  earnest,  until  he  one  day 
found  a  paper  which  had  been  carelessly  left  upon  the  desk, 
entitled  "The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Thomas  Chatterton." 


30  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

In  this  the  writer  expressed  his  design  of  committing  suicide 
the  following  day.  For  this  offence  he  was  dismissed  by  the 
attorney,  after  having  been  in  his  service  three  years.  Lam- 
bert also  found  on  Chatterton's  desk  a  letter  addressed  to  tlio 
benevolent  Mr.  Clayfield,  containing  a  touching  statement  of 
his  distresses,  and  closing  with  the  assurance  that,  by  the 
time  it  should  be  received,  its  author  would  be  no  more. 
•  This  was  sent  to  Mr.  Barret,  one  ot  the  poor  clerk's  sinccrest 
friends,  who  visited  him  without  delay,  and  urged  upon  him 
the  horrible  turpitude  of  suicide.  The  next  day  he  received 
the  following  reply : 

"Mr.  Barret. — Sir:  Upon  recollection,  I  dont  know  how 
Mr.  Clayfield  could  come  by  his  letter.  In  regard  to  my 
motives  for  the  supposed  rashness,  I  shall  observe  that  I 
keep  no  worse  company  than  myself.  I  never  drink  to 
excess  *  *  *  and  have,  without  vanity,  too  much  sense  to 
be  attached  to  the  mercenary  retailers  of  iniquity.  No!  it  is 
my  pride — my  datnned,  native,  unconquerable  Pride — that 
plunges  me  into  distraction!  You  must  know  that  19-20ths 
of  my  composition  is  pride.  I  must  either  live  a  slave — 
a  servant,  to  have  no  will  of  mv  own — no  sentiments  of  my 
own,  which  I  may  freely  declare  as  such,  or  DIE!  Perplex- 
ing alternative!  but  it  distracts  me  to  think  of  it.  I  will 
endeavor  to  learn  humility,  but  it  cannot  be  here.  What  it 
may  cost  me  on  the  trial.  Heaven  knows. 

"I  am  your  much  obliged,  unhappy,  serv't, 

"T.  C." 

In  the  dark  catalogue  of  crime  there  is  none  which  so 
completely  a}>pals  us  as  self-murder.     Our  social  laws  liave 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  SUICIDE.  a  I 

visited  it  with  deep  and  lasting  stigma,  and  sorrowing  nature 
revolts  at  the  hideous  thought. 

"  For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned — 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ?" 

And  yet  suicide  has  its  apologists,  and  we  might  almost 
say  its  advocates ;  but  they  are  only  to  be  found  among  those 
who  either  never  knew  the  power  of  Christianity,  or  who, 
having  abandoned  it,  have  plunged  into  shipwreck.     Hence 
it  is  a  distinctive  feature  in  modern  infidelity,  as  it  was  in 
ancient  paganism,   that   it    pleads   for  this   unnatural   deed. 
Hume,  whose  pen  was  so  ready  and  so  gifted  in  the  service 
of  error,  here  enjoys  a  miserable  distinction,  for  few  have 
labored  with  equal  zeal  to  prove  that  suicide  is  not  inconsistent 
with  our  duty  and  welfare.    Like  one  "  who  scatters  firebrands, 
arrows,  and  death,  and  then  says  'am  I  not  in  sport,'"  his 
desire  seems  to  have  been  to  speak  plausibly  of  a  deed,  from 
which  he  shrunk,  even  while  exciting  others  to  its  performance. 
We  shall  not  here  quote  or  review  his  fallacies,  as  they  are 
made  a  distinct  theme  in  another  part  of  this  volume,  but 
simply  refer  to  that  common  plea  in  defence  of  suicide,  that 
one  may  do  as  he  will  with  his  own;   or  in  other  words,  that 
an   existence   imposed   without   consent  may  be  laid  down 
without  guilt.    In  this  brief  expression  there  lurks  a  monstrous 
fallacy.     As  to  the  right  of  one  to  do  with  his  own  as  he  will, 
without   respect  to  tlie  common  good,  or  above  all  to  the 
glory  of  God,  we  deny  it.     No  such  i-ight  inheres  in  man. 
Whether  the  trust  be  power,  or  wealth,  or  intellect,  or  simply 
existence,  its  holder  is  bound  on  the  one  hand  to  resist  its 


32  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

perversion,  and  on  the  other  to  improve  it  to  highest  good. 
Above  all,  should  life  be  sacred  to  its  possessor,  since  it  is  tlie 
most  exalted  of  God's  gifts,  both  in  character  and  in  purpose. 
It  is  true  that  sin  has  done  so  much  to  blast  human  existence 
that  sometimes  it  becomes  a  drear  and  protracted  experience 
of  privation,  disappointment,  and  pain.  How  often,  indeed, 
does  hope  spi'ing  up  only  to  be  crushed,  and  joy  bloom  only 
to  be  withered,  until  at  last  every  step  in  life's  journey  has 
become  an  agony !  Yet  a  serious  view  of  this  most  serious 
question  is  sufficient  to  convince  that  no  suffering,  however 
aj^palling,  can  justify  suicide. 

Sorrow  may  wrap  its  shroud-like  embrace  about  the  hap- 
less soul,  and  nature  may  sink  in  the  conflict  which  convulses 
it,  until  at  last  death  shall  appear  the  highest  boon — yet 
even  at  such  an  awful  crisis  Christianity  affords  a  power  of 
endurance,  through  which  the  unfortunate,  instead  of  collapsing 
into  suicide,  may  rise  to  the  loftiest  attainments  of  character. 
And  thus  patience,  and  submission,  and  the  joy  of  a  chastened 
soul,  may  find  new  life,  even  in  the  horrible  pit  and  miry  clay 
where  others  have  perished.  Yet  suicide  has  been  garnished 
by  some  with  a  ineretricious  heroism,  and  even  applauded 
under  the  title  of  "  a  Roman  death."  Yet  will  any  one  who 
understands  true  heroism  apply  the  term  to  such  a  deed,  or 
even  offer  a  similar  violence  to  the  lesser  word  "courage?" 
Courage,  to  flee  a  world  Avhich  one  should  conquer — to  desert 
a  post  which  should  be  defended  to  the  last !  Shall  we  call 
this  courage?     If  so,  what  is  cowardice? 

Among  the  diflcront  causes  of  suicide  we  may  yield  prom- 
inence to  the  shallow  and  defective  education  of  the  day, 
peculiarly  in  its  moral  aspect,  through  which  the  showy,  the 
specious,  and  the  fashionable  are  made  paramount  to  good 


LYTTLETON  AND  BYRON.  33 

sense  and  piety.  Can  it  be  wondered  that  those  who  are 
hurried  into  life's  battle,  destitute  of  that  preparation  which 
arises  from  moral  culture,  should  often  perish,  like  Saul, 
amid  hopeless  defeat?  Spiritualism  also  has  wrought  des- 
perate mischief  in  the  history  of  the  unfortunate,  as  has  often 
been  proven  at  inquests  held  over  the  dead.  To  this  we  may 
add  the  more  fearful  word.  Remorse.  A  darkened  yet  de- 
vouring conscience,  unpurged  by  atoning  blood,  has  driven 
many,  like  Judas,  to  self-destruction.  Chief  among  such 
terrible  examples  there  stands  that  of  Lord  Lyttleton — the 
gifted,  yet  abandoned-r-the  nobleman  by  birth,  but  by  habit 
the  scourged  and  degraded  slave  of  sin.  This  miserable  man, 
having  determined  on  suicide  as  a  last  refuge  from  the  horrors 
of  the  accuser  within,  shrouded  the  deed  (no  doubt  for  his 
family's  sake)  in  the  mystery  of  that  vision,  whose  details  are 
familiar  to  most  of  our  readers.  Let  those  who,  like  him, 
set  laws,  both  social  and  divine,  at  defiance,  and  rush  madly 
into  vice  and  crime,  remember  that  they  are  day  by  day 
arming  an  array  of  furies  which,  at  the  voice  of  conscience, 
shall  in  each  one  renew  the  dark  history  of  Orestes.  Byron, 
who  at  times  writhed  with  the  memory  of  crime,  contemplates 
a  fate  which  we  wonder  that  he  escaped,  in  the  following 
terrible  picture: 

"  The  mind  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes 
Is  like  to  scorpion  girt  with  fire — 
The  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 
Till  inly  searched  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  its  ire, 
One  and  sole  relief  it  knows — 
The  sting  it  nurtured  for  its  foes, 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain — 


34  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
He  darts  into  his  desperate  brain. 
So  do  the  darlc  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  liiie  scorpion,  girt  b}'  fire. 
So  writhes  tiie  mind  remorse  has  riven — 
Unfit  for  earth — undoomed  to  Heaven, 
Darkness  above — despair  beneath — 
Around  it  flame — within  it  death." 

Socialism,  also,  has  proven  a  fruitful  source  of  self  murder 
— as  stated  in  the  able  speech  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter,  before 
the  House  of  Lords — in  which  manj  cases  were  cited  as 
arising  from  the  prevalence  of  the  doctrines  of  Owen  and  his 
associates.  One  of  these  was  as  follows:  A  certain  appren- 
tice, after  frequently  attending  the  socialist  meetings,  was 
one  day  found  dead — two  bottles  of  poison  and  four  letters 
lay  by  his  side;  one  of  the  latter  was  addressed  to  his  father, 
another  to  his  employer,  and  another  to  the  jury  who  might 
hold  inquest.  The  last  contained  his  creed,  in  which  he 
affirmed  his  belief  that  "  the  Bible  was  the  most  dangerous 
book  ever  written,  and  if  such  a  person  as  Jesus  Christ  ever 
lived.  He  was  the  weakest  man  he  ever  heard  of"  He  denied 
all  belief  of  a  place  of  future  retribution — considered  appren- 
ticeship slavery,  and  preferred  a  brief  pain  to  six  years  of 
servitude. 

The  following  incident  will  present  these  truths  in  a  still 
stronger  liiilit.  A  zealous  infidel  circulated  several  hundred 
copies  of  Paine's  works  among  his  acquaintance.  The  *'  Age 
of  Reason"  was  in  this  way  received  by  a  young  governess. 
In  a  few  weeks  the  members  of  the  family  observed  in  her  a 
marked  change  of  cliaracter  and  appearance.  She  expressed 
great  unhappiiiess,  but  refused  to  disclose  the  cause,  and  at 


^  O 


MISERIES  OF  GENIUS.  35 

last  sunk  into  a  state  of  extreme  dejection.  Her  lifeless  body- 
was  afterwards  found  with  marks  of  suicide,  and  a  paper 
which  had  been  left  in  her  desk  gave  reasons  for  the  deed. 
It  stated  that  from  the  moment  she  read  the  above  mentioned 
volume  her  mind  had  become  unsettled — her  former  religious 
impressions  were  undermined,  and  in  proportion  as  the  views 
of  Paine  had  taken  possession  of  her  she  had  become  miserable, 
until,  from  a  belief  that  death  was  annihilation,  she  had 
rushed  into  its  embrace  to  escape  present  distress. 

We  may  therefore  easily  judge  of  the  fearful  influence 
which  Infidelity  must  have  exerted  on  the  morbid  intellect  of 
the  young  poet;  and  it  was  in  a  frame  to  which  suicide  had 
become  congenial  that  he  prepared  to  forsake  Bristol  and 
cast  himself  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  the  great  metropolis. 
This,  too,  was  at  a  time  when  the  best  intellects  of  England 
could  hardly  win  bread,  and  the  world  of  literature  was  but 
a  slough  of  despond.  Goldsmith,  the  gifted  and  the  popular, 
was  with  much  ado  holding  off"  the  bailiff";  and  even  Johnson 
had  but  lately  escaped  that  extreme  destitution  which  embit- 
tered his  best  years.*     There  was  at  that  time  hardly  such  a 

*  "  When  first  the  college  rolls  receive  his  name, 
The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame ; 
Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 
Caught  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown. 

Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger  free, 
Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for  thee ; 
Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes, 
And  pause  a  while  from  learning  to  be  wise- 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail : 
7u/7,  envy^  want^  the  patron  and  the  jail.  " 

Johnson. 


3fi  TUE  CHILD  BARD. 

thing  as  popular  literature,  for  the  masses,  rude  and  un- 
lettered, uttered  no  demand  for  mental  pabulum;  even 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  Avere  but  little  known  in  the  land  of 
their  flime,  and  the  limited  class  of  general  readers  was  made 
up  of  politicians,  students,  and  a  few  of  the  nobility.  Indeed, 
without  the  patronage  of  the  latter  an  author  could  hardly 
expect  publication;  and  at  the  levees  of  the  peerage,  amid 
pimps,  gamesters,  and  money-lenders,  might  often  be  seen 
the  wan  visage  of  some  writer,  seeking  the  privilege  of  a 
dedication. 

This  low  state  of  Belles  Lettres  can  only  be  accounted  for 
by  the  absence  of  an  active  religious  sentiment,  the  consequent 
decline  of  education,  and  the  inevitable  degradation  of  the 
public  mind.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  evident  that  in  the 
reiffn  of  George  the  Third  British  literature  had  sunk  to  its 
lowest  ebb.  Disappointment  and  inevitable  penury  were  the 
author's  portion.  The  splendid  success  of  modern  genius 
could  not  have  entered  the  wildest  reveries  of  that  hapless 
class  which  was  supposed  to  inhabit  Grub  street.  The  great 
world  of  periodical  literature  had  hardly  a  beginning.  The 
"  Gentleman's  Magazine,^'  with  its  archosological  scraps,  and 
verses  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  boarding  school,  was  kept  afloat 
by  the  energy  of  Cave,  and  this  Avith  the  "Town  and  Country," 
"The  Monthly  Critic,"  and  one  or  two  others,  equally  w^ak, 
held  the  place  now  occupied  by  British  and  American 
reviewers.  High-minded  criticism  was  as  yet  unknown,  and 
the  loftiest  walk  of  fiction  led  through  spectre-haunted  castles, 
and  mysteries  such  as  those  of  Udol j)lio. 

And  yet,  amid  this  puny  generation,  an  occasional  giant 
towers  before  us,  and  we  are  startled  as  we  meet  the  author 
of  the  unanswerable  "Analogy,"  and  the  impassioned  and 


CHATTERTON'S  ADVENT  TO  LONDON.  37 

melting  Whitefield — the  one  as  unapproachable  in  argument 
as  the  other  was  in  eloquence;  while  another  of  the  same 
colossal  proportions,  with  his  slouched  and  snuffy  raiment — 
his  twitching  countenance  and  huge,  ungainly  form,  was  just 
emerging  from  the  obscurity  of  Bolt  court,  to  be  lionized  at 
Thrale's,  and  to  astonish  the  diners-out  of  London  by  his  table 
talk.  And,  unseen  by  the  public  eye,  though  it  agonised  for 
the  sight — hidden  by  that  veil  which  even  a  century  has  been 
unable  to  remove — there  was  still  another,  who  combined  the 
Titan  and  the  Ariel — plucking  secrets  from  the  hearts  of 
diplomatists  and  kings,  and  then,  through  Woodfall's  columns, 
thundering  at  the  very  doors  of  Court  and  Parliament,  until 
royalty  itself  trembled  at  the  mighty  name  of  Junius. 

Chatterton's  advent  to  London  opened  a  door  of  hope. 
He  had  previously  published  a  few  articles  in  the  "Town  and 
Country  Magazine,"  and  in  his  correspondence  with  the  book- 
sellers of  the  metropolis  he  had  received  many  promises. 
But  beside  this,  the  past  held  before  his  eager  gaze  one  tower- 
ing example,  which  could  not  but  fire  his  ambition  anew,  and 
cheer  him  on  to  the  field  for  which  he  chafed.  Two  centuries 
before,  a  youth  from  the  banks  of  his  own  Avon,  had  in  that 
same  London  achieved  fame,  and  why  not  he,  who  owned  no 
lower  rank  in  creative  power?  Two  centuries  before,  famished 
and  forlorn,  his  feet  had  trod  those  very  streets,  in  search  of 
food  and  shelter.  Two  centuries  before,  he  had  won  his 
bread  upon  the  playhouse  boards — yet  at  last  the  vagrant 
youth,  and  the  humble  player,  had  gained  the  loftiest  niche  in 
the  temple  of  fame,  and  now  held  court  with  universal  homage. 
And  what  were  two  centuries  in  the  annals  of  the  great? 
True,  the  Globe  was  gone,  and  so  were  the  Tudors  and  their- 
court,  who  there  saw  ILimlet's  author  flit  as  Hamlet's  ghost. 


38  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

Old  London,  too,  had  been  purged  by  conflagration,  and  the 
new  city  had  spread  to  enormous  size.  But  how  much  greater 
now  the  field,  and  more  glorious  the  victory?  And  why 
should  there  not  be  another  Bard  of  Avon  to  win  the  world's 
regard,  and  why  should  her  waters  deny  to  Bristol's  son  that 
inspiration  they  had  yielded  to  the  boy  of  Stratford  ? 

Nor  had  Shakespeare  liimself  such  earnest  of  success;  in- 
deed, what  could  he  offer  at  sixteen  to  compare  with  the 
gorgeous  dreams  of  Rowley — and  one  who  at  so  early  an 
hour  had  given  birth  to  these,  what  might  he  not  dare  in  riper 
years'? — for  what  power  has  time  to  stop  the  flow  of  Helicon, 
or  hush  the  midnight  wail  of  the  tragic  musel 

In  April,  1770,  Chatterton  took  farewell  of  his  native  city, 
from  which  he  had  never  before  wandered,  save  throufjh  her 
rural  precincts,  and  the  lumbering  coach  sooi^.  landed  him 

"  In  London — tliat  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more."  * 

His  first  letter  to  his  mother  is  buoyant  with  hope,  and 
it  would  seem  that  joyous  day-dreams  swept  through  his 
soul,  as  for  the  first  time  he  -v^alked  the  streets  which  once 
echoed  to  the  tread  of  Milton,  and  Pope,  and  Spenser,  and 
Shakespeare — to  him,  indeed,  as  well  as  to  them,  should 
critics  and  booksellers  bow.  O  heart,  so  fondly  feeding  upon 
self-created  homage,  these  fiiture  splendors  are  but  tlie 
offspring  of  thy  brain — baseless  as  thine  own  myth  of  Rowley, 
and  soon,  like  the  mirage,  to  fade  before  the  desert's  burning 
waste!  Indeed,  such  an  alternative  seems  at  times  to  have 
cast  its  forboding  shadow.     Like  one  who  had  staked  high, 

«  Shcllev. 


LETTERS  TO  HIS  MOTHER  39 

he  had  prepared  desperately  for  the  event  of  failure.  Thus 
he  replies  to  Thistlewaite's  inquiry  as  to  his  plans:  "My 
first  attempt  shall  be  in  the  literary  way— the  promises  I 
have  received  are  sufficient  to  dispel  doubt;  but  should  I, 
contrary  to  my  expectations,  find  myself  deceived,  I  shall 
turn  methodist  preacher.  Credulity  is  as  potent  as  ever,  and 
a  new  sect  may  easily  be  devised;  but  if  that  too  fail  me, 
my  last  and  final  resource  is  a  pistol." 

The  following  extracts  from  his  letters  present  the  glowing 
pictures  which  in  his  brighter  moments  he  sketched  for  his 
beloved  mother.  They  witness  for  the  tenderness  ot  one, 
who,  while  he  soared  so  far  above  the  tame  details  of  common 
life,  had  not  forgotten  its  humblest  duties,  and  who,  while 
drinking  deeply  of  the  Pierian  spring,  still  'thirsted  for  the 
sweeter  streams  which  flow  from  a  home  and  a  mother's 
heart.  And  while  we  admire  the  creations  of  that  genius, 
now  exalted  before  us.  we  more  devoutly  honor  the  filial 
affection  which  enriched  it,  and  which  added  even  a  higher 
nobility  than  that  of  intellect. 

"London,  May  6,  1770. 

"  Dear  Mother  : — 1  am  again  settled — and  such  a  settle- 
ment as  I  could  desire.  I  get  four  guineas  a  month  by  one 
magazine,  and  shall  engage  to  write  a  history  of  England, 
and  other  pieces,  which  will  more*  than  double  that  sum. 
Occasional  essays  for  tlie  daily  papers  would  more  than  sup- 
port me.  What  a  glorious  prospect!  Mr.  Wilkes  knew  me 
by  my  writings,  since  I  first  corresponded  with  the  booksellers 
here.  He  affirmed  that  what  Mr.  Fell  had  of  me  could  not 
be  the  writings  of  a  youth  *  *  *  I  am  quite  familiar  at  the 
Chr.ptcr  Coffee  House,  and  know  all  the  geniuses  there — a 
character  is  now  unnecessarv — an  author  carries  his  character 


40  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

in  his  pen.  Bristol's  mercenary  walls  were  never  destined  to 
hold  me;  there  I  was  out  of  my  element — ^now  I  am  in  it. 
London !  good  God !  how  superior  is  London  to  that  despic- 
able place,  Bristol.  Here  is  none  of  your  little  meannesses — 
none  of  your  mercenary  securities,  which  disgrace  that  miser 
able  hamlet.  *  *  *  The  poverty  of  authors  is  a  common  ob- 
servation, but  not  always  a  true  one.  No  author  can  be  poor 
who  understands  the  arts  of  booksellers;  without  this  neces- 
sary knowledge  the  greatest  genius  may  starve — with  it  the 
greatest  dunce  may  live  in  splendor." 

Again:  "London,  May   14. 

"Matters  go  on  swimmingly.  Mr.  Fell  having  offended 
certain  persons,  they  have  set  his  creditors  on  him,  and  now 
he  is  in  the  King's  Bench.  1  am  bettered  by  this  accident. 
Ilis  successors,  knowing  nothing  about  the  matter,  will  be 
glad  to  engage  me  on  my  own  terms,  *  *  *  Last  week,  being 
in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  I  contracted  an  im- 
mediate acquaintance  (which  you  know  is  no  hard  task  for 
me,)  with  a  young  gentleman  from  Cheapside,  partner  in  a 
music  store — the  greatest  in  the  city.  Hearing  I  could  write, 
he  desired  me  to  write  a  few  songs  for  him.  *  *  These 
he  shewed  to  a  doctor  in  music,  and  I  am  invited  to  treat 
with  this  doctor  on  the  footing  oi  a  composer  for  Ranelagh 
and  the  Gardens.  Bravo,  hey  boys!  up  we  go!  Beside  the 
advantage  of  visiting  these  expensive  and  polite  places  gratis, 
my  vanity  will  be  fed  by  the  sight  of  my  name  in  copper 
plate,  and  my  sister  will  receive  a  bundle  of  printed  songs — 
the  words  by  her  brother." 

A<Tain:  "Tom's  Coffee  House,  May  30. 

"Di:ar  Sister: — There  is  such  a  noise  of  business  and  politics 
in  the  room,  that  my  inaccuracy  in  writing  is  higlily  excusable. 


WALKING  A  PRECIPICE.  41 

My  present  profession  obliges  me  to  frequent  places  of  the 
best  resort.  *  *  *  j  employ  money  now  in  fitting  myself 
fiishionably  and  in  getting  into  good  company.  *  *  *  But  I 
have  engaged  to  live  with  a  gentleman,  the  brother  of  a  Lord, 
(a  Scotch  one  indeed)  who  is  going  to  advance  pretty  deeply 
into  the  bookselling  branches.  I  shall  have  lodging  and 
boarding,  genteel  and  elegant,  gratis.  *  *  *  I  will  send 
you  two  silks  this  summer,  and  expect  in  answer  to  this  what 
colors  you  prefer;  my  mother  shall  not  be  forgotten.  My 
employment  will  be  writing  a  voluminous  history  of  London, 
to  appear  in  numbers,  the  beginning  of  next  winter.  *  *  * 
Essay  writing  has  this  advantage,  you  are  sure  of  constant 
pay,  and  when  you  have  once  wrote  a  piece  which  makes  the 
author  enquired  after,  you  may  bring  the  booksellers  to  your 
own  terms." 

These  letters  exhibit  an  ecstaey  of  hope — a  delirium  of 
expectation,  into  which  no  doubt  or  contingency  could  pene- 
trate. The  golden  atmosphere  of  the  future  could  only 
change  to  increase  in  brilliance.  "  Mr.  Wilkes  knew  him  by 
his  writings;" — "occasional  essays  will  more  than  support 
him"; — "Ranelagh  and  the  gardens;" — "his  vanity  fed  by 
his  name  in  copper  plate,"  etc.  Thus  the  witchery  of  the 
dream  has  fully  possessed  him,  and  amid  its  charmed  scenoiy 
he  beholds  his  name  shooting  like  a  star  to  the  zenith.  But 
ah!  amid  all  this  sweet  illusion,  does  not  his  path  traverse 
an  unseen  precipice?  Aye — and  when  did  hope  so  quickly 
end  in  ruin?  We  gaze  aghast  at  the  downward  course — im- 
potent to  save — and  ere  he  fiill  we  read  with  unbidden  tears 
the  record  of  gushing  generosity  Avhich  proves  his  fdial 
afll'ction.  The  humble  home  of  his  childhood  was  still  para- 
mount, even  amid  the  splendid  sights  of  London,  and  he  lived 


42  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

in  that  anticipated  hour  when  its  little  circle  should  share  the 
glory  of  his  name. 

Thus  he  writes  again:  "Dear  mother,  I  send  you  in  the 
box  six  cups  and  saucers,  with  two  basins  for  my  sister.  If 
a  china  tea  pot  and  cream  pot  are  in  your  opinion  necessary,  I 
will  send  them,  but  I  am  informed  they  are  unfashionable. 
Be  assured  that  whenever  I  have  the  power  my  will  wont  be 
wanting  to  testify  that  I  remember  you.  N,  B. — I  shall 
forestall  your  intended  journey,  and  pop  down  upon  you  at 
Christmas." 

Ao-ain — "  Dear  Sister,  I  have  sent  vou  some  china  and  a 
fan — you  have  your  choice  of  two.  I  am  surprised  that  you 
chose  purple  and  gold.  I  went  into  the  shop  to  buy  it,  but  it 
is  the  most  disagreeable  color  I  ever  saw — dead,  lifeless,  and 
inelegant.  *  *  *  Be  assured  that  I  shall  ever  make  your 
wants  my  wants,  and  stretch  to  the  utmost  to  serve  you."  *  * 

Again — 20th  July:  "Dear  Sister,  I  am  now  about  an 
oratorio,  which,  when  finished,  \vill  purchase  you  a  gown. 
You  may  be  certain  of  seeing  me  before  the  first  January. 
*  *  *  Almost  all  the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  is  mine. 
I  have  a  universal  acquaintance;  my  company  is  courted 
every  where,  and  could  I  humble  myself  to  go  into  a  compter, 
could  have  had  twenty  places  before  now.  But  I  must  be 
among  the  great — state  matters  suit  me  better  than  com- 
mercial. *  *  *  I  have  a  deal  of  business,  and  therefore 
must  bid  you  adieu.  You  will  have  a  longer  letter  from  me 
soon,  and  one  more  to  the  purpose." 

Here  tei-minates  the  correspondence  of  the  unfortunate 
boy — presenting  in  terrible  contrast  the  glowing  enthusiasm 
of  hope,  and  the  dark  shadow  of  despair,  about  to  full  upon 
his  wretched  head.     Within  one  month  from  the  date  of  the 


THE  BUBBLE  BURSTS.  43 

List  epistle  the  splendid  bubble  burst,  and  the  enchanted 
youth  awoke  amid  the  gnawings  of  poverty  and  the  horrors 
of  unsoothed  disappointment.     Within  one  month  he  "who 
enjoyed  a  universal  acquaintance,  and  who  could  not  humble 
himself  to  go  into  a  compter,"  is  a  hungry  applicant  at  the 
shop  of  some  haughty  bookseller.     In  that  brief  episode  of 
London  life,  from  May  to  August,  were  crowded  the  agonies 
of  a  lifetime.     He  had  dreamed  of  the  poet's  laurel,  but  he 
was  fain  to  abandon  the  muse  and  seek  bread  by  writing  tales 
for  magazines,  and  squibs  for  politicians,  and  burlettas  for  the 
theatre.     Yet  even  this  degradation  of  the  most  splendid 
dramatic  powers  of  the  age  availed  him  not— the  promises  of 
the  booksellers  proved  worthless.     A  few  shillings,  received 
from  time  to  time,  for  these  pieces,  kept  him  from  starvation; 
but  the  ea^rle  genius  was  unable  to  win  the  bread  w^hich  filled 
the  laborer  and  the  artisan  to  the  fall.     His  entire  receipts, 
durino-  his  four  months  in  London,  appear  to  have  been  but 
£4.  15s,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  the  booksellers  were  in 
his  debt  eleven  pounds— a  sum  doubly  earned,   and  then 
cruelly  withheld.     And  he  who  for  years  past  had  consorted 
with  high  tragedy — ^who  had  held  court  among  the  mighty 
dead,  and  who  thought  to  conquer  the  world's  admiration, 
now  writhes  in  the  torments  of  shame,  and  sinks  among  the 
pauper  swarm  of  Grub  street !  * 

*  "  I  remembered,  in  crossing  Westminster  Bridge,  that  the  poet  Crabbe 
walked  on  it  all  night,  when  in  distress,  and  his  last  shilling  expended. 
Here  it  was  that  Otway  perished  of  hunger,  and  starved  Chatterton  by 
poison.  And  these  were  the  very  streets  which  Richard  Savage  and 
Samuel  Johnson  had  so  often  walked,  from  midnight  to  morning,  having 
no  roof  under  which  to  find  shelter."— Hugh  Miller. 


44  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

And  pride  too  must  full !  the  last  unconquerable  passion  of 
that  lofty  soul.  O  pride,  thou  sin  of  genius !  thou  canst  not 
bow  before  the  dark  array  of  misfortune — no,  never!  There- 
fore well  spoke  the  serene  Wordsworth: 

"  I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy— 
The  sleepless  youth — that  perished  in  his  pride." 

And  thus  we  are  prepared  for  the  next— the  fatal  step.     In- 
fidelity has  taught  the  youth  the  art  of  suicide,  and  havin^r  de- 
stroyed  hope,  now  urges  him  to  the  deed.     He  is  alone, 
wrestling  with  a  mighty  temptation.     It  is  an  hour  of  unutter- 
able darkness,  and  his  powers  are  dried  up  in  the  grasp  of 
his  dread  antagonist.    Clouds,  murky  and  death-laden,  have 
enshrouded  him,  and  beneath  yawn  billows,  black  with  despair. 
He  gazes  wildly  around,  and  sees  himself  disowned  of  earth. 
The  world  casts  out  the  chosen  son  of  genius,  while  it  pampers 
the  boor  and  the  profligate — he  bursts  away,  with  one  despe- 
rate act — never  more  to  be  retrieved — and  asks  of  that  vile 
world  but  to  hide  him  from  its  sijiht! 


******* 


There  is  a  temptation — weird  and  bewildering — of  which  the 
soul  fears  even  to  speak,  for  the  lips  lose  their  power  while 
it  weaves  its  terrific  snare.  Oh,  how  the  voice  of  Nature  be- 
seeches utterance,  yet  to  no  fond  companion  may  it  be  un- 
bosomed, and  day  after  day  is  the  heart  consumed  with 
the  agonizing  conflict ! 

There  are  few  of  adult  years  who  have  not  wrestled  with 
that  dark  enemy,  whose  name  is  suicide;  there  are  few  who 
have  not  felt,  in  hours  of  keen  agony — in  hours  of  bereave- 
ment and  desolation — that  death  were  to  be  sought  as  hid 


TEMPTATION  MOST  FEARFUL.  45 

treasure.     Even  as  we  write  the  waking  vision  comes  before 
us,  so  often  realized  in  the  history  of  the  unfortunate.     Let 
us  look  and  sigh,  but  let  us  also  learn.     He  walks  the  mid- 
night street,  but  midnight  is  not  so  dark  as  the  shadow  on  his 
reeling  brain.     His  step  is  quick  and  nervous,  yet  fast  as  he, 
may  stride,  he  cannot  out-march  the  horrid  thought  which 
haunts   each  burdened  moment.     "O  life,   thou  bitter  cup! 
thou  heavy  load !   how  art  thou  best  escaped  1"  And  the  fell 
sisterhood  of  Temptation  ply  their  enchantment.     O,  what 
blissful  treachery,  that  charms  one  with  promised  draughts  of 
oblivion — with  visions  of  coral  caves  in  ocean's  bosom,  which 
yield  surcease   from  grief  and  toil — with  thoughts  of  tuify- 
graves,  whose  peace  is  broken  only  by  the  zephyr's  sigh,  and 
where  all  the  hurly-burly  of -life's  battle  is  hushed  in  the 
Atheist's  dreamless  slumber.     We  hear  that  fell  sisterhood, 
in  soft  voices,  pleading  for  the  damning  deed,  as  they  pass 
before  the  bewildered  soul  their  instruments  of  death.     One 
holds  the  steel,  flashing  with  a  mystic  lustre,  which  charms 
the  fixed  and  feverish  eye.     "O  child  of  sorrow,  see,  for  I 
will  give  thee  peace — but  one  firm  stroke,  and  the  billows  of 
woe  shall  be  passed,  and  thou  henceforth  be  free!"     Ano- 
ther, with  soft  beaming  eyes,  presents  the  cord,  waving  in 
graceful  cii'cles  through  the  darkened  air:  "Here,  too,  child 
of  sorrow,  thou  seest  peace — though  all  else  have  failed,  this 
shall  now  seal  thy  woe  in  sleep !"     And  this  one  bears  the 
bowl:  lovely  as  a  second  Hebe,   she  presses  forward  the 
draught, 

"  With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixed ;" 

"Drink,  then,  thou  afllictcd  one — drink  and  forget;  drink,  and 
blot  out  the  dai-k  memories   of  life!"      We  cannot  wonder 


4G  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

that  under  such  insidious  attack,  frail  nature  often  loses  its 
resistant  power,  and  leaves  us  to  bewail  the  triumphant 
temptation  and  its  awful  fruit.* 

The  late  Dr.  C —  of  New  York  was  a  touching  example  of 
assaults  sprung  upon  the  soul  by  a  temptation,  which 
assumed  an  individuality  of  character.     He  stated  that  "alike 

*  THE    suicide's    GRAVE. 
I  stood  beside  a  public  way, 

Where  men  passed  to  and  fro, 
And  there  was  a  mound  of  fresh-turned  clay, 

And  I  asked  who  slept  below ; 
And  some  among  the  crowd  replied, 
It  was  the  grave  of  a  suicide. 

I  gazed  upon  the  unhallowed  spot, 

And  thought  what  biting  care — 
What  burning  grief  had  been  the  lot 

Of  him  who  rested  there; 
What  clouds,  dark  gathering,  day  by  day, 
Had  chased  the  light  of  hope  away? 

'Twas  his — that  dark  and  chilling  grief — 
That  winter  of  the  mind ;  "* 

When  Hope  drops  off,  like  the  last  green  leaf, 
That's  swept  away  by  the  wind, 

And  the  heart  is  left  like  a  blasted  tree — 

A  ruin,  and  a  mockery. 

And  was  there  none  to  drop  the  tear. 

And  none  to  heave  the  sigh  ? — 
No  faithful  spirit  lingering  near. 

To  look  its  last  good  bye  ? 
Alas !  not  one !     Unwept,  unknown. 
The  cold  earth  o'er  his  corpse  was  thrown. 

Anonymous. 


SEEK  HELP  IN  GOD.  47 

in  his  professional  duties,  and  in  the  hour  of  social  enjoyment 
and  relaxation,  they  hovered  around  and  assailed  him  with 
ceaseless  malice.  Their  attacks  were  most  vehement,  and 
most  difficult  to  withstand,  when  he  was  exhausted  by  over 
exertion — an  event  of  frequent  occurrence,  owing  to  the 
extreme  delicacy  of  his  organization.  His  anxiety  lest  he 
should  become  sleepless  was  unremitting;  for  he  used  to  say 
that  in  that  state  he  was  more  tlian  ever  in  their  power, 
and  that  if  long  continued,  it  w^ould  certainly  drive  him  to 
destruction.  For  several  nights  before  his  death  he  could  get 
no  sleep — his  spiritual  tormentors  returned  to  the  charge 
with  greater  pertinacity  than  ever.  His  agony  was  fearful — 
He  cried,  'I  must  get  help  from  some  quarter.'*  But  help 
came  not,  and  the  unfortunate  man  died  by  his  own  hand." 
Oh!  what  shall  one  say  to  the  tempted  to  win  him  from  his 
fate?  "Help  must  come  from  some  quarter,"  exclaimed  the 
suicide  physician;  "but,  brother,  there  was  a  quarter  from 
which  thou  hadst  turned  away — hadst  thou  been  a  believer 
thou  hadst  not  looked  for  help  in  vain."  We  know  of  truth 
that  in  that  despised  Gospel  is  contained  all  virtue  for  thee, 
O  tempest-tost  and  afflicted!  Or  if  argument  could  be 
heard,  we  would  urge  that  though  weariness  of  life  be  no 
damning  sin,  yet  seli-destruction  were  so,  beyond  redemption. 
Remember,  too,  that  good  men  have  been  at  times  weary  of 
life,  yet  borne  the  load  with  patience;  indeed,  were  all  the 
life-burdened  to  yield  to  suicide,  how  many  an  orphan  would 
walk  the  streets  to-day?  A  smitten  one  of  olden  time  ex- 
claimed, "I  loathe  it,  I  loathe  it,  I  would  not  live  alway;" 
yet  added,  "all  my  days  will  I  wait,  till  my  change  come." 
Paul  knew  that  death  wore  gain,  and  Avas  "in  a  strait  betwixt 
*  The  N.  Y.  Tribune  srives  the  detiiils  of  this  strange  affair. 


48  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

two,  having  a  desire  to  depart,  and  to  be  with  Christ,  which 
is  far  better."  Yet  coupled  with  that  thirst  to  depart,  was  a 
willingness  to  remain  and  suffer — to  live,  not  for  his  own,  but 
for  others'  weal.  Such  an  example  opens  upon  us  with  a 
superhuman  grandeur.  Oh,  there  is  something  noble  in  the 
endurance  of  life  after  the  charm  of  mere  existence  is  over ! 
In  such  a  case  how  one  will  cheerfully  consent  to  the  prolong- 
ing of  that  which,  in  itself  considered,  has  been  exhausted 
of  all  excitements  save  those  of  duty.  This  indeed  is  the 
higher  life,  of  which  the  herd  knows  nothing — not  a  base 
clinging  to  mere  existence,  but  a  willingness  to  live — a 
sublime  endurance,  w^hich  welcomes  poverty  and  pain,  and 
defies  despair. 

Ah !  poor  suicide — in  heart — who  readest  this  page,  where  is 
thy  heroism  to  fight  the  world  and  all  thy  foes?  It  is  a  good 
fight,  and  there  be  those  about  thee  that  battle  stoutly. 
What  brav^e  comrades  are  wife  and  little  ones — a  group  that 
despair  never  yet  conquered!  And  wilt  thou  drop  arms  and 
leave  them  to  battle  on?  Shame!  Say,  man,  wouldst  thou 
slay  the  head  of  some  other  house?  Nay,  then,  why  that  of 
thine  own?  But  ah!  thou  wilt  say,  perhaps,  "I  have  no 
house,  but  toss  alone  on  life's  billow — a  waif  owned  of  none." 
Nay,  but  God  owns  thee,  and  bids  thee  own  Him;  and  while 
the  cheerless  and  shadowed  hours  turn  slowly  on  the  iron 
wheel  of  existence,  his  ear  is  open  to  thy  cry !  Let  that  cry 
go  boldly  up,  and  learn  to  live  in  Him.  Life,  as  it  is  given 
here  on  earth,  is  but  a  type  of  that  glorious  life  which  is  to 
come,  and  which  is  held  before  the  eye  of  faith  as  the  highest 
gift  of  God;  "He  asked  life  of  thee,  and  thou  gavest  it 

HIM,  EVEN  LENGTH  OF  DAYS,  FOR  EVER  AND  EVER." 

But  now  the  hour  of  bitter  doom  draws  near.     As  Chatter- 


HOUR  OF  DESPAIR.  49 

ton  surpassed  in  genius,  so  he  seems  to  hold  equal  distinction 
in  fearful  fate;  for  when  did  author  ever  meet  such  early  and 
irretrievable  ruin?  The  struggle  has  lasted  but  four  months, 
and  now  it  ends  in  unparalleled  horror!  His  reverses  have 
all  along  seemed  to  invite  the  dread  temptation.  Pride  and 
poverty  have  driven  him  from  Walmsey's,  in  Shoreditch,  to 
the  meaner  roof  of  Mrs.  Angel,  in  Brook  street,  and  here, 
solitary  and  hopeless,  he  has  passed  his  few  remaining  days.* 

"  Then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  earth,  on  which  he  moved  alone. 

The  world,  for  so  it  thought, 
Owed  him  no  service ;  wherefore  he  at  once, 
With  indignation,  turned  himself  away. 
And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his  soul 
In  solitude." 


*  "  Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  poverty 
Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days — 
'Tis  crime,  and  fear,  and  infamy. 
And  houseless  want,  in  frozen  ways 
Wandering,  ungarmented,  and  pain; 
And  worse  than  all,  that  inward  stain — 
Foul  self-contempt,  which  drowns  in  sneers 
Youth's  starlight  smile,  and  makes  its  tears 
First  like  hot  gall,  and  then  dry  for  ever." 
These  lines  of  Shelley's  are  as  false  as  they  are  harrowing.    Poverty  is, 
indeed,  a  sore  evil,  but  it  is  not  "  cj-ime  and  fear,  and  infamy,''''  nor  '■'■foul 
nelf  contempts     It  is  one  of  the  evidences  of  the  divine  origin  of  Christ- 
ianity, that  under  her  sway  even  poverty  becomes  endurable ;  and  at  thia 
moment,  no  doubt,  thousands  are  proving  by  experience  that  "the  little 

3 


50  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

Thus  he,  bewildered  youth,  thinks  all  is  lost,  and  so  must 
die.  Ah,  terrible  scene!  yet  we  cannot  but  gaze  upon  it. 
He  stands  before  us  stripped  of  every  vestige  of  hope  for  thi.s 
world,  or  that  which  is  to  come.  He  has  been  crushed  in 
the  conflict  with  the  one,  and  he  cannot  draw  strength  from 
the  other,  for  unbelief  has  emptied  it  of  all  but  the  dream  of 
oblivion.  And  the  desolation  of  Infidelity  covers  his  soul  as 
with  a  pall !  Silent,  and  convulsed  with  the  madness  of 
broken  ambition,  he  has  wandered  all  day,  and  now,  gaunt 
and  famine-eyed,  his  half-reeling  form  darkens  his  cheerless 
lodgings.  No  opened  Bible  spreads  its  sacred  page,  to  sustain  in 
that  dark  hour.  Christians  have  borne  such  distresses  before, 
and  why  could  not  he,  like  others,  have  endured?  "What 
would  not  the  words  of  scripture  have  been  worth  to  the 
overborne  soul?  Reading,  for  instance,  from  the  145th 
Psalm:  "  Tlie  Lord  npholdeth  all  that  fall,  aigl  raiseth  up  all 
them  that  be  bowed  down.  *  *  The  Lord  is  nigh  unto  them 
that  call  upon  him,  to  all  that  call  upon  him  in  truth  *  *  He 
will  fulfil  the  desire  of  them  that  fear  him,  He  will  also  hear 
their  cry  and  save  them.''''  Words  like  these  have  many  a 
time  given  new  life  to  the  crushed  and  desolate;  might  they 
not  have  done  so  in  the  case  of  poor  Chatterton?     O,  ye 


that  the  righteous  hath  is  better  than  the  riches  of  many  wicked ;"  and 
that  "a  dinner  of  herbs,  where  love  is,  is  better  than  a  stalled  ox  and 
contention  therewith."  Shelley  showed  his  incapacity  for  reform  by 
ranking  that  condition  as  a  prime  evil  which  our  Saviour  voluntarily  as- 
sumed, and  which  He  taught  His  disciples  to  consider  of  little  nionunt, 
compared  witli  the  great  evil,  sin.  Had  Chatterton  contended  with  his 
misfortunes  but  for  a  few  days,  ho  would  have  found  relief — at  the  very 
time  of  his  death  a  patron  was  in  pursuit  of  hiiu. 


THE  FATAL  NIGHT.  51 

champions  of  unbelief — ye  poisoners  of  your   race,   can   ye 
answer  these  questions  save  by  the  accustomed  sneer? 

He  paces  the  floor — his  blood-shot  eye,  no  longer  flashing 
its  lightnings,  nor  rolling  in  fine  phrenzy,  but  charged  with 
agony  too  deep  for  tears.  Here  are  some  sheets  on  whose 
contents  he  once  relied  for  wealth  and  fame.  Let  them 
perish  with  their  wretched  author!  and,  rent  into  shreds, 
they  strew  the  floor.  Now  all  is  done,  and  he  gazes  into  the 
arsenic  draught.  But  say!  did  not  one  thought  of  hx)me 
break  in,  to  cry  rescue]  There — far  away  in  Bristol,  sat  a 
fond  mother,  whose  poverty  had  been  so  often  cheered  by  the 
hopes  resting  on  her  marvellous  boy.  On  that  very  night 
of  horrid  suicide  her  heart  is  full  of  thoughts,  centered  on 
son  Thomas  and  the  Christmas  visit,  which,  with  its  gifts  and 
honors,  was  to  make  all  Bristol  rife  with  surprise  and  admi- 
ration. And  Mary,  too,  sits  by  that  mother's  side,  and  as 
face  looks  on  face  with  affection's  gaze,  they  speak  of  that 
absent  one,  whose  love  forms  their  strongest  tie,  and  the  deep 
drawn  sigh,  and  the  unbidden  tear,  tell  of  love's  cares  and 
fears.  Oh,  fatal  night  for  mother  and  sister,  did  they  not  feel 
fore-shadowed  grief?  And  thou,  poor  Thomas,  say,  ere  that 
irrevocable  step  be  taken,  canst  thou  not  return  to  that 
mother's  arms,  starved  and  shame-smitten  though  thou  be? 
Oh,  look  not  in  that  fatal  cup,  which  trembles  in  thy  grasp! 
Remember  home;  bethink  thee  of  Mary  and  of  mother  dear, 
and  by  those  names  be  saved.  "  No,  no !"  cries  the  voice  of 
triumphant  temptation ;  and  PRIDE,  too,  will  not  yield.  In- 
fidelity has  wrought  madness — the  abnormal  mind  confesses 
its  eclipse — and  reason,  and  even  hope,  is  buried  in  endless 
niiiht! 


52  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

"Stung 
And  poisoned  was  my  spirit ;  Despair  sung 
A  war  song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  Hell."  * 

A  solemn  question  offers  challenge  as  we  gaze  upon  the 
self-slain  youth.  Where,  in  the  broad  annals  of  misfortune,* 
are  scenes  like  this  imputed  to  piety?  Let  the  reply  be  given, 
not  in  ribaldry,  but  in  facts.  Aye !  and  would  not  piety 
have  rescued  Thomas  Chatterton  from  a  suicide's  grave,  and 
preserved  for  poet's  cofner  the  form  which  now  fills  a  pauper 
shell'?  Dead,  too,  and  not  eighteen !  But  worse  even  than 
this  is  the  thouirht  that  longer  life  could  not  have  been  desired 
for  the  unfortunate  youth,  were  it  to  be  unchanged  in  charac- 
ter. Thus,  while  on  the  one  hand  infidelity  and  impiety  rob 
man  of  the  dcsii-e  for  life,  so  do  they  on  the  other  despoil  life 
of  its  value  and  purpose.  Hence,  by  how  much  more  pro- 
tracted the  career  and  greater  the  position,  by  so  much  the 
more  deplorable  is  his  destiny  who  subserves  error.  Paine 
and  Voltaire  lived  even  to  hoary  hairs ;  yet  if  there  be  any 
choice  between  their  long  and  miserable  lives  and  the  brief 
yet  bitter  experience  of  poor  Chatterton,  it  is,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  his  last  act,  in  favor  of  the  latter. 

Even  thus  is  Infidelity  ever  the  destroyer  of  genius,  and 
an  unknown  grave  in  Shoe  Lane  hides  a  noble  victim,  over 
whom  memory  fain  would  hover,  while  poetry  weeps,  refusing 
to  be  comforted.  We  cannot  omit  the  contrast  here  sugaested 
between  poor  Chatterton  and  another  rare  and  gifted  youth, 
who,  like  him,  rests  in  an  untimely  grave.  Like  him,  he  was 
an  attorney's  apprentice,  consumed  too  by  secret  ambition, 

*  Keats. 


A  SOLEMN  CONTRAST.  53 

while  chained  to  the  wheel  of  drudgery,  and  crushed  by 
penury.  Here,  however,  the  parallel  ceases,  for  Henry  Kirke 
White  was  a  Christian.  Death  smote  him  ruthlessly ;  for  he 
fell  in  the  midst  of  a  bright  career  at  the  University.  Eman- 
cipated from  toil,  and  admitted  to  the  halls  of  learning,  he 
became  conscious  of  the  power  within,  and  longed  for  life  that 
he  might  achieve  a  name.  This  was  denied,  but  grace  teaches 
submission,  and  the  pensive  muse  serenely  resigns  its  hopes. 
Sustained  by  the  Christian's  faith,  the  fading  poet  rebukes 
the  undying  ambition  which  once  mastered  his  soul,  and 
turns  from  Parnassus  to  Calvary.  Here  all  the  glories  which 
once  he  thirsted  for  are  swallowed  up  in  the  far  more  exceed- 
ing glory  of  redemption.  How  foreign — how  revolting, 
indeed,  to  such  an  one,  would  have  been  the  dark  dream  of 
suicide !  Grace  triumphs  in  all  his  conflicts,  and  dear  as  life's 
future  hours  appear  to  the  parting  soul,  he  serenely  turns  to 
his  God,  and  surrendering  these  promised  joys,  bids  farewell 
to  earth  and  to  fame. 

• 

"  Yes,  'tis  the  hand 

Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

Yet  a  little,  and  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall, 

Silent — unseen — unnoticed — unlamented. 

Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die ! 
****** 

I  did  hope 
For  better  things — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 
The  world  without  a  vestige.     Fate  decrees 
It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 
Henceforth,  0  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires ! 
Now  other  cares  engross  me, 


54  THE  CHILD  BARD. 

And  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste, 

Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wing  for  Heaven. 

Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon — this  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  fevered  brain, 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before — 

Yon  landscape  smile — yon  golden  harvest  grow — 
Yon  sprightly  lark,  on  mounting  wing,  will  soar, 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  fiiends  caress — 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave;   ' 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 

When  I  am  mouldering  in  the  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just,  thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup— 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up." 

There  is  a  tender  sweetness  in  these  lines,  though  the 
thought  be  neither  original  nor  striking.  One  cannot  claim  iV.r 
their  author  the  rank  of  genius,  but  it  would  seem  that  the 
contrast  between  him  and  the  unfortunate  Chatterton  were 
strong  proof  that  that  rank  receives  its  brightest  glory  from 
the  simple  faith  of  the  Christian.  It  was  this  exquisite  com- 
bination of  poetic  taste  and  cheerful  piety,  which,  while  both 
were  at  the  University,  extorted  admiration  even  from  the 
profligate  Byron. 

We  may  therefore  boldly  affirm  tliat  so  far  as  respects 
the  beauty  or  excellence  of  genius,  Infidelity  is  its  destroyer. 
The  experience  of  ages  has  compelled  the  world  to  honi)r 
Christianity  as  the  crowning  glory  of  the  intellect.  Genius, 
when  deprived  of  its  influence,  may  dazzle,  but  her  flashes 
are   like  those  of  the  storm  cloud,  startling  and  terrible, 


SAINT   MARY'S    CHURCH. 


MISERIES  OF  UNBELIEF.  55 

instead  of  the  sunbeam,  genial  and  cheering.  We  have  been 
taught  this  by  a  lesson  of  later  days — one  of  whose  bards, 
while  yet,  like  Chatterton,  a  youth,  was  thus  betrayed. 
Henceforth  his  blighted  muse  is  perverted  to  error,  and 
in  another  page  we  have  traced  those  misfortunes  whichi 
piety  would  have  escaped.  But  blinded  to  this,  he  wanders 
through  the  world  like  a  comet  in  its  aphelion — each  moment 
farther  from  the  sun;  nor  can  we  wonder,  though  we  may 
sigh,  at  the  misery  and  crime  which  mark  the  brief  career 
of  Shelley.  United  with  his,  stands  the  name  of  another, 
in  whom  the  dazzled  age  beheld  youth,  genius,  and  lofty 
rank,  and  at  whom,  for  a  while,  the  world  wondered.  But 
that  world  soon  saw  in  him  how  Infidelity  could  pollute 
genius  and  degrade  rank.  In  the  midst  of  Memnonian  strains, 
which  proved  the  gnindeur  of  his  muse,  it  heard  measures 
fascinating  the  young  by  mingled  beauty  and  licentiousness, 
and  it  beheld  with  sorrow  the  fidl  of  one  who  began  \\ith 
Childe  Harold,  but  ended  with  that  unfinished  medley  which 
interweaves  the  beautiful  and  the  impure.  Had  Milton  been 
thus  corrupted,  we  may  well  ask  where  would  have  been  the 
chrystalline  purity  of  Comus,  or  the  unclouded  majesty 
of  his  epics?  The  world  may  well  be  grateful  that  Milton 
lived  in  the  days  of  the  Puritans,  and  above  all  that  he  was 
a  Christian. 

Therefore,  with  a  sad  yet  valued  lesson,  we  turn  from  the 
tale  of  thy  conflicts,  O,  marvellous  boy  of  Bristol !  for  ^\■e 
have  gathered  wisdom  from  its  darkened  page.  Thus,  too, 
doth  old  Saint  Mary  speak  to  those  who  stand  where  once  her 
Chatterton  mused  and  strayed.  Thus  doth  Shoe  Lane  also 
whisper,  when  the  moon  looks  down  on  the  poor  boy's  grave. 


56 


THE  CHILD  BARD. 


Thus  do  the  parchments,  pale  and  ochre-stained,  seem  to  read, 
and  even  good  Sir  William  Canyngc,  and  Ella,  and  Sir 
Charles,  and  old  Father  Rowley,  in  his  priestly  vestments, 
and  venerable  with  hoary  piety — all  unite  in  that  voice,  heard 
from  the  dim  regions  of  dreamland  and  romance,  and  each 
and  all  attaint  the  destroyer  of  that  Child  Bard,  who  gave 
them  life  on  his  magic  page. 


BOOK    SECCIs^D. 


THE    REVOLUTIONIST, 


"  Oh,  this  nkw  freedom  !     At  now  dear  a  price 
We've  dodght  the  seeming  good  ! — the  peaceful  tirtves, 
And  every  blandishment  op  private  life, 
All  sacrificed  to  Liberty's  wild  riot." 

Coleridge. 


THE    REVOLUTIONIST. 


IT  IS  written,  "The  nation  and  kingdom  that  will  not 
serve  thee  shall  perish."*  These  words  have  passed 
from  prophecy  into  history.  The  nations  which  have  abjured 
Christianity  have  perished,  without  exception,  and  many  of 
them  in  a  manner  so  different  from  ordinary  decay,  as  to 
prove  the  truth  of  Holy  Writ.  The  experience  of  ages  has 
taught  us  that  no  country  can  "become  truly  great  unless  its 
foundations  be  laid  in  scriptural  piety.  Without  this  there 
may  be  sudden  outbursts  of  patriotism,  as  in  ancient  Greece, 
or  temporary  prosperity,  as  in  Italy  and  Spain,  whose  palmy 
days  cast  their  reproachful  memory  over  the  ruins  of  virtue 
and  power;  but  without  it  there  can  be  no  enduring  vigor. 

There  is  but  one  bond  that  can  hold  the  human  family  in 
unity,  and  harmonise  conflicting  opinions;  there  is  but  one 
magnet  to  overcome  the  repulsion  of  selfishness,  and  there 
is  but  one  balm  to  heal  the  malignant  wounds  of  facti<jii. 
This  is  irood  faith — that  confidence  of  man  in  man — that 
assurance  of  mutual  fidelity  which  ensures  the  abeyance  of 
selfish  ends,  when  in  conflict  with  the  common  weal.     As  a 

*  Isaiah,  60-12. 


60  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

principle,  therefore,  good  ftiith  underlies  the  social  compact. 
It  unites  our  race  in  defence  of  common  rights ;  it  enables  it 
to  establish  polity,  to  enact  laws,  to  administer  justice,  and 
to  so  fulfill  the  details  of  government  as  to  reflect  the  order 
and  justice  of  Him  who  has  ordained  it.  Good  faith  is  the 
fruit  of  Christianity  alone,  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  national 
prosperity  will  be  found  to  bear  a  strict  proportion  to  the 
Christian  element. 

In   enumerating   the   benign   results   of  the   gospel,    the 
Apostle  Paul  makes  a  reference  to  this  truth,  and  states  that 
the  fruit  of  the  Spirit  is  love,  joy,  peace,  long-suflering,  gentle- 
ness,   goodness,  faith."*     Martin    Luther,    far-sighted    and 
philosophical,  thus  illustrates  the  teachings  of  the  apostle: 
"When  Paul  here  reckoneth  faith  among  the  fruits  of  the 
spirit,  it  is  manifest  that  he  speaketh  not  of  faith  which  is  in 
Christ,  but  of  the  fidelity  and  humanity  of  one  man  toward 
another.     Hereupon  he  saith,  in  the  thirteenth  of  the  first 
Corinthians,  that  charity  believcth  all  things.     Therefore,  he 
that  hath  this  faith  is  not  suspicious,  but  mild,  and  taketh 
all  things  to  the  best;    and  although  he  be  deceived,  and 
findeth  himself  to  be  mocked,  yet  such  is  his  patience  and 
softness  that  he  letteth  it  pass;  briefly,  he  is  ready  to  believe 
all  men,  but  he  trusteth  not  all.     On  the  contrary,  where 
this  virtue  is  lacking,   there  men  are  suspicious,   froward, 
wayward,  dogged,  and  so  neither  will  believe  anything,  nor 
give  place  to  anybody;    they  can   suffer   nothing;    whatso- 
ever a  man  saith   or  doeth  never  so  well,   they  cavil  and 
slander  it,  so  that  who  so  scrveth  not  their  humor  can  never 
please  them.     Therefore  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  keep 
charity,  friendship,   concord  and   peace  with   men.     But   if 

*  Galatian?.  5-22. 


THE  TRUE  STATESMAN.  61 

these  virtues  are  taken  away,  what  is  this  life  but  biting  and 
devouring  one  of  another?  Faith,  therefore,  in  this  place,  is 
when  one  man  giveth  to  another  in  things  pertaining  to  the 
4)resent  life ;  for  what  manner  of  life  should  we  lead  in  this 
world,  if  one  man  should  not  credit  another?"* 

Such  being  the  beneficent  results  of  Christianity,  we  under- 
stand that  the  words  of  the  prophet  accomplish  their  fulfil- 
ment by  a  natural  law.  The  nations  which  disown  God  rend 
the  only  tie  which  can  hold  repelling  and  conflicting  interests 
in  peaceful  adhesion.  The  great  crucible  in  which  factions, 
and  even  tribes  are  purified  and  fused,  is  broken.  The 
structure  of  society  dissolves,  like  "  the  baseless  fabric  of 
a  vision,"  and  its  place  is  usurped  by  anarchy.  The  history 
of  mankind  has  demonstrated  the  great  truth  that  without 
the  faith  above  described  liberty  cannot  exist,  and  that  when 
rooted  from  the  public  mind  and  extirpated  by  violence,  as 
has  been  so  fearfully  accomplished  by  some  of  the  persecuting 
nations  of  Europe,  the  mutual  ties  of  society  become  but  a 
rope  of  sand. 

The  true  statesman  is  he  who  is  the  most  truly  possessed 
by  this  lesson;  and  when  the  destiny  of  man  demands  the 
overturn  of  existing  powers,  and  the  reconstruction  of  poli- 
ties, he  who  obeys  that  lesson  will  prove  himself  the  true 
revolutionist.  Such  an  one,  indeed*  will  rank  high  among 
benefactors;  for  revolution  is  an  ever-recurring  event  in  his- 
tory— it  is  the  necessary  and  certain  corrective  of  misrule — 
at  the  time  deplorable,  perhaps,  yet  as  inevitable  as  the 
thunderstorm,  and  often  as  purifying.  In  peaceful  and  pro- 
tracted administration  there  inheres  a  tendency  to  corruption, 
and  undisputed  power  ever  ends  in  its  abuses.     Thus  wrongs 

*  Commeutary  on  Galatians. 


02  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

gradually  increasing,  culminate  at  length  in  great  oppression. 
Then  the  atmosphere,  charged  with  opposing  opinion,  bursts 
from  its  unrest  into  open  resistance,  and  rights  are  vindi- 
cated by  the  patriot's  sword.  England  and  America  passed* 
through  the  ordeal,  not  only  unscathed,  but  renewed  in 
vigor,  and  advanced  in  national  majesty.  Happy  is  that  peo- 
l^le  which  in  the  hour  of  trial  shall  possess  piety  as  well  as 
genius  in  its  leaders,  and  shall  follow  some  chieftain  modelled 
after  Cromwell  or  Washington. 

If,  therefore,  Christianity  alone  be  the  parent  of  order  and 
the  foundation  of  permanent  and  prosperous  rule,  how  utterly 
empty  must  be  the  pretensions  of  the  avowed  infidel  to  the 
lofty  position  of  the  statesman?  How  utterly  impossible 
were  it  that  such  an  one  should  achieve  deliverance  for  the 
oppressed,  or  establish  a  successful  polity.  However  bril- 
liant in  arms,  or  eloquence — or  lavish  in  personal  sacrifice, 
he  has  yet  to  learn  the  very  first  principle  of  his  high  call- 
ing. An  illustration  of  this  important  truth  is  furnished  by 
the  career  of  one  who  may  be  considered  preeminently  the 
infidel  revolutionist  of  his  day;  and  whose  failure  to  master 
the  science  of  government  was  due  to  the  exclusion  of  Chris- 
tianity as  its  first  principle. 

Tlie  year  1737  was  an  eventful  one  in  the  annals  of  the 
Deistical  controversy.  It  witnessed  the  publication  of  Hume's 
first  and  chief  attack  on  Christianity,  and  the  nativity  of  one 
of  his  most  zealous  disciples.  Thomas  Paine  was  born  at 
Thetford,  in  England.  The  most  direct  information  concern- 
ing his  early  years  is  recorded  in  his  own  language.  "My 
father,  being  of  the  Quaker  profession,  it  was  my  good  fortune 
to  have  an  exceedingly  good  moral  education,  and  a  tolerable 
stock  of  useful  learning.     Though  I  went  to  the  Grammar 


PAINE'S  ACCOUNT  OF  KIMSELF.  G3 

School,  I  did  not  learn  Latin,  not  only  because  I  had  no 
inclination  to  learn  languages,  but  because  of  the  objections 
the  Quakers  have  against  the  books  in  which  the  languages 
are  taught.  But  this  did  not  prevent  me  from  being  acquainted 
with  the  subjects  of  all  the  Latin  books  used  in  the  school. 
The  natural  bent  of  my  mind  was  to  science.  I  had  some 
turn,  and  I  believe  some  talent  for  poetry ;  but  this  I  rather 
repressed  than  encouraged,  as  leading  too  much  into  the  field 
of  the  imagination.  As  soon  as  I  was  able,  I  purchased  a 
pair  of  globes,  and  attended  the  philosophical  lectures  of 
Martin  and  Ferguson,  and  became  afterward  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Bevis,  of  the  Royal  Society,  then  living  in  the  Temple, 
and  an  excellent  astronomer." 

He  learned  the  trade  of  stay-making,  and  labored  two  or 
»;hree  years  with  his  father,  who  pursued  the  same  calling. 
When  about  sixteen  he  went  to  London,  and  afterward  to 
Dover,  in  quest  of  work;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  remon- 
strances of  his  father,  he  would  at  the  latter  place  have 
shipped  on  a  privateer.  Those  remonstrances,  however,  did 
not  long  detain  him,  and  dissatisfied  with  his  trade,  he  em- 
barked on  the  "  King  of  Prussia,"  and  gave  himself  to  the  for- 
tunes of  the  sea.  How  long  he  was  engaged  in  this  service  we 
have  no  record.  It  was  no  doubt  a  pernicious  school,  in 
which  his  sceptical  views,  which  he  admits  arose  in  early 
youth,  were  encouraged — and  it  is  evident  that  the  coarseness 
inseparable  from  the  forecastle  followed  him  through  life. 
He  subsequently  abandoned  the  sea,  and  resumed  his  trade  of 
stay-making,  cultivating  no  doubt  in  his  leisure  habits  of 
thoughtful  reading,  and  thus  gathering  a  stock  of  general  infor- 
mation. The  self  taught  man  is  always  in  danger  of  conceit, 
for  a  smattering  inflates  the  mind  as  truly  as  learning  humbles 


64  THE  KEVOLUTIOXIST. 

it,  and  Paine's  slender  acquisitions  were  not  without  the 
accompaniment  of  self-complacency. 

The  stay-maker  was  in  due  time  promoted  to  a  place  in 
the  Excise.  At  that  day  to  be  a  guager  was  no  small  dis- 
tinction. His  duties  brought  him  in  contact  with  govern- 
ment officials,  and  his  active  mind  began  to  revolve  the  gross 
abuses  of  power,  then  so  rife  in  England,  until  beneath  the 
quiet  routine  of  measuring  cargoes  of  Holland  gin,  or  the 
more  exciting  one  of  chasing  smugglers,  lay  a  pent-up  volcano 
of  thought  and  opinion. 

In  1774  Paine  made  the  acquaintance  of  Franklin,  who  had 
been  for  some  years  colonial  a^ent  in  London.  Franklin's 
position  was  one  of  rare  dignity  and  eminence;  for  while 
both  feared  and  hated  by  the  Court  he  enjoyed  the  confidence 
of  the  better  classes  and  the  admiration  of  the  world  of 
science.  Men  of  liberal  opinions  viewed  him  as  their  cyno- 
sure, and  hence  a  friendship  was  soon  established  between  the 
young  English  guager  and  the  venerable  American  sage. 
Paine's  mind  was  at  this  time  charged  with  revolutionary 
ideas.  The  Court  and  Parliament  were  foul  with  corruption. 
Bribery  and  injustice  pervaded  every  public  department,  and 
tyranny  had  almost  demoralised  the  army  and  the  navy, 
whose  ranks  fared  worse  than  the  modern  felon.*     To  these 

*  "Where  change  of  favorites  made  no  change  of  laws, 

And  Senates  heard  before  they  judged  a  cause. 
******* 

Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats, 
And  ask"  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes ; 
With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale, 
Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail." 

JOHSSOX. 

"  The  consequence  has  been  that  profligate  wickedness  has  become 


ENGLAND'S  TROUBLES  AT  THAT  DAY.  65 

abominations  the  masses  were  beginning  to  waken,  and  the 
throbbing  hearts  of  thousands  shook  England  with  indignant 
pulsation.  John  Wilkes,  hero  and  debauchee,  revived  in 
London  that  spirit  of  resistance  which  a  century  previous  had 
battled  with  the  usurpations  of  the  crown.  He  exhibited  the 
boldness  if  not  the  morality  of  the  Puritan,  and  in  the  fiery 
columns  of  the  "  North  Briton,"  and  even  from  the  hustings, 
he  hurled  defiance  at  the  King  himself. 

But  soaring  far  above  John  Wilkes,  there  soon  appeared 
the  most  relentless  and  scathing  of  publicists,  whose  bolts 
were  scattered  like  those  of  another  Jupiter  Tonans.  This 
was  Junius — the  secret  and  the  terrible — the  incomparable 
and  tl>e  superb,  about  whose  genius  mystery  has  hung  her 
everlasting  shroud.  lie  of  the  Argus  eye — of  the  Olympian 
power,  and  the  Apollo's  grace,  thundered  day  after  day  at 
the  rotten  Court,  until  the  King  and  his  pampered  councillors 
trembled  at  his  name.  Such  was  the  unrest  prevailing  in 
London,  that  France  was  considered  by  some  as  less  liable  to 
popular  outbreak ;  while,  to  add  to  the  misfortunes  of  England, 
her  colonial  difficulties  now  threatened  civil  war.  Franklin 
discerned  the  power  of  his  plebeian  friend,  and  pointed  out 
the  new  world  as  a  suitable  sphere  for  his  vigorous  and  inde- 
pendent mind. 


almost  as  universal  as  the  air  we  breathe.  *  *  *  0,  the  unspeakal)le 
patience  of  God !  The  multiplied  instances  of  impiety,  blasphemy,  cruelty, 
adultery,  villainy,  and  abominations  not  to  be  thought  oi  without  horror, 
under  which  this  land  groans,  are  only  known  to  Him  who  knoweth  all 
things.  *  *  *  Though  some  of  the  Roman  poets  and  historians  have 
given  very  dark  pictures  of  the  times  they  lived  in,  their  worst  descrip- 
tions of  this  kind  would  hardly  be  found  exaggerated  if  appHed  to  our 
own." — From  "  A  Word  in  Seasoti"  by  JoJin  Newton. 


66  TUE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

Paine  soon  sailed  for  America.  His  was  the  first  arrival 
of  an  avowed  revolutionist  to  her  shores.  His  vocation, 
indeed,  was  not  to  build,  but  to  destroy.  He  was  one  of  the 
first  of  those  colossal  radicals,  whose  cry  is  "overturn,  over- 
turn, overturn!"  unaware  of  the  danger  of  success — a  class 
whose  full  career  was  soon  to  be  fulfilled  in  the  anarchy  and 
bloodshed  of  France.  Yet,  though  Paine  was  thoroughly  a 
revolutionist,  the  mantle  of  Cromwell  had  not  fallen  upon 
hnn — no  conservative  element  mingled  with  his  hostility  to 
kingcraft,  and  over  him  Christianity  held  no  genial  sway. 

America  had  been  famed  for  piety,  and  her  hopes  for  success 
were  inspired  by  the  prayers  daily  ascending  from  her  scat- 
tered homes ;  but  her  new  ally  was  a  scoffer  at  her  piety,  and 
an  enemy  to  her  faith.  Yet  he  soon  aroused  public  attention 
by  his  boldness  and  decision.  Indeed,  in  this  new  arena  he 
stood  as  a  herald  of  advancing  destiny.  The  energies  of  the 
nascent  republic  were  anxiously  awaiting  the  voice  of  its 
leaders,  while  many  clung  timidly  to  the  past,  and  the  boldest 
trembled  at  the  future.  At  such  a  crisis  the  stranger  strode 
boldly  to  the  front  rank,  and  there  bore  his  part  in  the  sublime 
act  of  defiance  to  the  British  empire.  Unpracticed  with  the 
sword,  his  skill  lay  in  the  use  of  the  pen,  which  he  dipped  in 
gall,  and  wielded  with  the  hand  of  a  master.  Indeed,  it  was 
soon  confessed  that  in  keen  invective — sparing  neither  crown 
nor  official — he  stood  without  equal.  None  could  argue  more 
plausibly  in  plain,  earnest  Saxon,  or  if  sophistry  were  expe- 
dient, none  could  so  readily  interweave  it.  None  could  appeal 
more  powerfully  to  the  patriot,  and  none  could  so  witheringly 
adjure  the  curse  upon  the  coward. 

Such  as  have  read  those  masterly  pamphlets  which,  under 
the  titles  of  "Common  Sense,"  and  "The  Crisis,"  once  thrilled 


PAINE 'WRITES  COMMON  SENSE.  67 

the  colonies,  will  confess  their  depth  and  power.  How  vastly 
frreater  then  must  have  been  their  effect,  when  those  colonies 
were  aghast  with  the  appeal  to  arms,  and  these  waifs  were 
scattered,  like  Sybilline  leaves,  penetrating  where  the  elo- 
quence of  Hamilton  and  Patrick  Henry  had  never  reached. 

Conscious  of  the  stimulus  which  he  had  given  to  the  public 
mind,  their  author  may  be  pardoned  the  self-complacent 
expression  (baseless  though  its  assumption  be,)  which  appears 
in  his  letter  to  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives, 
in  1808.  "I  do  not"  says  he,  "believe  independence  would 
have  been  declared,  had  it  not  been  fur  the  effect  of  that 
work."  It  is  evident,  however,  that  independence  was  an 
assured  result,  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  conflict;  yet 
Paine's  early  essays  confirmed  many  a  wavering  mind,  and 
threw  light  upon  the  resources  of  America.  He  soon  received 
a  mark  of  appreciation  in  the  appointment  to  the  secretaryship 
of  the  Committee  of  Foreign  Affairs,  wliich  opened  to  his  curi- 
ous gaze  its  secret  correspondence  with  European  powers ;  but 
his  proclivity  to  attack  was  soon  shown  by  a  series  of  articles  in 
Dunlop's  Journal,  charging  both  Silas  Doane  and  Beaumarcliais 
with  peculation  in  stores  obtained  from  France.  On  the  appear- 
ance of  the  third  of  this  series,  John  Jay,  President  of  Congress, 
demanded  the  author's  name;  and  4t  being  avowed,  his  dis- 
charjje  was  moved,  but  lost.  Paine  then  demanded  a  hearin":, 
and  on  being  refused,  resigned  the  next  day.  Thus  early  we 
find  a  want  of  confidence  expressed  toward  him  by  public 
men.  Perhaps  this  was  in  some  measure  owing  to  his  well- 
known  opinions,  for  which,  at  that  time,  even  talent  could 
hardly  compensate.  The  people  of  America  were  deeply  im- 
bued with  the  piety  which  he  despised,  and  his  contempt  for  it 
thus  reacted  upon  himself.     At  that  day  an  avowed  Deist  was 


68  THE  REYOLUTIOXIST. 

an  object  both  of  fear  and  surprise,  and  in  a  Congress  whose 
sittings  were  opened  by  prayer  and  praise,  and  which  at  times 
even  breathed  a  missionary  *  as  well  as  a  patriotic  spirit,  the 
scoffing  author  could  only  expect  distrust. 

After  the  loss  of  his  office,  Paine  found  employment  with 
Owen  Biddle,  of  Philadelphia,  and  subsequently  received  the 
appointment  of  Clerk  from  the  Legislature  of  Pennsylvania. 
In  1781  he  accompanied  Henry  Laurens  to  France,  where  a 
loan  was  negotiated  in  behalf  of  the  struggling  republic,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  war  Congress  honored  him  with  a  vote  of 
thanks,  and  appropriated  £3000,  as  a  consideration  for  his 
services.  To  this  Pennsylvania  added  £500,  and  the  State  of 
New  York  followed  these  examples  by  presenting  him  a  valu- 
able farm  near  New  Rochelle.  While  'these  honors  were 
tempting  him  to  a  life  of  peace,  a  new  field  was  being  opened 
to  his  adventurous  spirit,  and  the  world  was  electrified  by  the 
revolution  in  France,  following  closely  upon  that  in  America. 
That  nation  which,  thirty  years  before,  was  distinguished  for 
stability,  and  was  even  considered  less  liable  than  England  to 
the  perturbations  of  faction,  became  suddenly  ablaze  with  re- 
volt— now  was  beheld  an  upheaval  of  all  that  was  ancient; 
new  opinions  and  strange  schemes  of  ethics  were  belched,  as 
from  some  volcano,  while  the  Gordian  knot  which  for  ages 
had  bound  the  liberties  of  the  nation  was  suddenly  cut  by  the 
guillotine. 

The  Court  and  ministry  of  England  trembled  to  find  their 

*  On  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  Congress  observed  a  day  of  thanks- 
giving and  prayer — one  of  whose  objects,  as  set  forth  in  the  preamble, 
was  to  pray  "for  God's  blessing  on  all  institutions  of  learning;  and  that 
the  glorij  of  God  might  cover  the  earth,  as  the  waters  cover  th^sea."—  Con- 
gresHional  Proceedings  for  1781. 


HIS  CONTROVERSY  WITH  BURKE.  09 

atmosphere  permeated  by  the  same  revolutionary  spirit.  Ed- 
jiuind  Burke,  representing  that  government,  of  which  he- was 
tlie  brightest  ornament,  published  an  attack  upon  the  princi- 
ples avowed  by  the  revolutionists  of  France.  Paine,  who  was 
then  in  England,  where  he  had  just  printed  "The  Rubicon," 
answered  the  statesman  with  "The  Rights  of  Man."  The 
writers  in  this  controversy  exhibit  a  striking  contrast.  The 
one  possessed  genius  of  the  highest  order,  and  his  gifts  had 
been  cultivated  by  a  life  of  arduous  study.  Though  for  years 
a  leader  in  the  opposition,  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the 
Court,  while  England  gloried  in  the  very  name  of  the  great 
commoner.  The  other  was  t]ie  rough-hewn  plebeian — the 
quondam  guager  and  stay -maker,  without  position  or  patron- 
age. Yet  seldom,  if  ever,  during  a  long  life  of  severe  debate, 
had  Edmund  Burke  met  so  powerful  an  antagonist  as  the 
author  of  the  "Rights  of  Man."  The  book  was  read  by 
thousands — and  crossing  the  channel,  commanded  the  admira- 
tion, even  of  Paris;  and  while  an  indictment  was  being  pre- 
pared for  its  author  in  London,  a  French  deputation  announced 
to  him  his  election  by  the  department  of  Calais  to  the  National 
Convention.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  the  Republic  had 
embraced  all  nations  in  fraternity,  and  although  he  was  a 
stranger  both  to  the  language  and  customs  of  France, 
Paine  was  deemed  a  fitting  legislator. 

He  arrived  in  Paris  in  time  to  behold  that  earthquake 
which  rocked  the  nation  to  its  centre.  On  the  tenth  of  August 
the  king  had  been  dethroned,  and  was  now  held  in  a  captivity 
which  was  only  to  end  in  fearful  doom.  The  revolution  had 
not  reached  its  fiercest  paroxysms,  but  they  were  rapidly 
drawing  nigh.  Order  still  seemed  to  prevail,  but  it  was  only 
the  lull  which  precedes  the  tempest.     It  was  at  such  a  timt 


70  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

that  with  nervous  step  an  excited  Englishman  hies  to  the  1  all 
of  the  Convention,  and  claims  a  seat  amonjf  its  crowded  and 
palpitating  benches.  As  one  gazes  upon  that  motley  gather- 
ing, it  might  be  asked,  was  there  any  lack  of  madmen,  that 
he  should  increase  the  number?  or  was  there  such  need  of 
recruits  to  the  ranks  of  the  guiUotine,  that  one  shoidd  thus  be 
summoned  from  a  forciirn  land?  Shall  he,  whose  mind  has 
been  embittered  with  harrowing  doubts,  until  it  has  suilerod 
wreck,  cast  them  upon  the  mountain  which  cruslied  the  intel- 
lect and  morals  of  the  nation,  and  add  to  the  load  under  which 
it  groaned?  Was  there  need  of  another  champion  of  error, 
when  already  in  ethics,  and  in  moral  science,  and  in  those 
fields  where  the  soul  should  feed  on  truth,  there  was  neither 
master  nor  discijile?  Yet  at  such  a  time,  when  the  solemn 
postulates  of  our  destiny,  the  sanctity  of  marriage,  the  rights 
of  property,  and  the  very  existence  of  God,  were  matters  of 
doubt,  the  misguided  Deist  saw,  as  he  thought,  redemptior. 
drawing  nigh. 

"We  do  not  consider  it  a  begging  of  the  question,  to  afTu-m 
that  Infidelity,  at  least  in  its  grosser  aspects,  is  a  phase  of 
insanity.  He  who  denies  the  existence  of  a  personal  God, 
and  the  operations  of  his  providence,  and  who  refers  all  things 
to  chance,  can  hardly  claim  integrity  of  intellect,  since 
by  his  profession  he  denies  one  of  the  constituents  of  the 
normal  mind.  On  truths  like  these  the  human  intellect  finds 
its  enduring  foundation,  from  which  it  may  rise,  as  in  tlie 
instance  of  Milton,  to  the  highest  flight  of  poetry;  and  from 
wliicli,  as  in  those  of  Chalmers,  andNewton,  and  Hugh  jNIillcr,  it 
will  enter  into  deepest  researelirs  of  science.  Witliout  the  per- 
vailing  influence  of  this  element,  knowledge  is  only  dangerous, 
since  it  may  become  as  powerful  for  evil  as  for  good ;  and  the 


INFIDELITY  AND  INSANITY.  71 

history  of  nations  repeats  its  awful  lesson,  age  after  age,  that 
wlien  thus  deprived,  the  progress  of  human  destiny  becomes 
but  a  vast  wave  of  sorrow. 

It  is  a  lesson  taught  the  physician  in  his  walk  that  lunacy 
i  commonly  preceded  by  conflicting  doubts  and  uncertainty. 
Indeed,  one  ot  the  first  symptoms  which  betray  a  foundering 
intellect,  is  its  vagaries  into  the  unknown — its  aberrations 
into  the  dreary  fields  of  supposition  and  mystery,  whence  it 
returns  frantic  with  uncertainty,  and  perplexed  with  subjective 
questioning.  These  conflicts  often  segregate  one  from  society, 
and  make  him  a  recluse,  even  in  the  midst  of  a  once-loved 
circle,  until  at  last  reason,  both  smitten  and  undermined, 
totters  into  the  abyss  of  madness.  Would  you,  O  reader, 
escape  a  misfortune  so  frequent,  and  yet  so  fearful  ]  Avoid 
habits  of  doubt,  and  banish  all  curious  anxieties  concerning 
things  too  great  for  you;  and  while  they  haunt  your  restless 
mind,  still  contend  earnestly  as  in  self-defence,  and  be  not 
satisfied  until  your  intellect  and  faifh  are  established  on  the 
sacred  truths  of  Christianity.*  Without  this  there  is  no  rest, 
even  for  the  sole  oi  the  foot ;  for  the  true  repose  of  the  spirit 
is  in  Ilim  who  created  it.  Hence  there  is  a  psycological,  as 
W(.4I  as  a  spiritual  truth,  of  vast  moment  in  the  intercom- 
munings  of  the  Psalmist:  "Why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my 
soul,  and  why  art  thou  disquieted  within  me?  iTbjje  thou  in 
Godr 
This  principle  applies  to  nations  as  Avell  as  to  individuals. 

*  Dr.  Ray,  in  the  report  of  the  Butler  Hospital  for  the  Insane  in  Rhode 
Island,  says :  "  I  believe — and  it  is  in  some  measure  the  result  of  consi- 
derable observation  of  various  psycological  states — that  in  this  age  of  fast 
living  nothing  can  be  relied  upon  more  surely  for  preserving  the  healthy 
balance  of  the  mental  faculties  than  an  earnest,  practical  conviction  of 
the  great  truths  of  Christianity." 


72  THE  REVOLUTIONIST, 

For  a  century  previous  to  the  revolution,  France  breathed  an 
atmosphere  utterly  exhausted  of  religious  truth.  Both  Eng- 
land and  America  were,  during  the  eighteenth  century,  re- 
energized by  Christianity,  and  a  second  reformation,  led  by 
Whitefield,  Romaine,  Edwards  and  the  Wesleys,  had  healed 
old  wounds,  and  renewed  national  vigor.  But  a  fearful  con- 
trast was  visible  in  France,  whose  teeming  yet  degraded 
masses  were  not  only  banished  from  the  fountain  of  living 
waters,  but  were  drinking  from  a  Circean  cup.  Here  the 
Bible  was  at  this  time  hardly  known.  *  The  priest  chained 
to  a  superstition  whose  mummery  he  despised,  either  groaned 
in  life-long  durance,  or  else  plied  his  craft  cunningly  before 
the  world,  and  then  in  secret  hours  compensated  himself  for 
his  privations  by  the  orgies  of  a  Sybarite.  The  flock  suffered 
equally  with  its  shepherd.  The  masses  might  cleave  to  super- 
stition, but  the  intelligent  recoiled  from  its  empty  forms  and 
impotent  dogmas,  and  yet  were  debarred  b}'  persecution  from 
that  truth  which  was  needful  to  development,  and  even  to 
existence.  The  nation  groaned  under  increasing  despotism, 
and  yet  its  heavy  taxes,  the  Lettre  de  Cachet,  and  even  the 
grim  Bastile,  and  all  the  appliances  of  Bourbon  tyranny,  were 
less  crushing  than  the  incubus  which  burdened  the  soul. 
Wealth  and  education  could  only  increase  an  evil  of  such  a 
character,  since  learning,  atheism,  and  licentiousness,  went 
hand  in  hand,  and  were  often  identified  in  the  same  individual. 
Such  being  the  condition  of  the  higher  classes,  that  of  the 
masses  must  have  been  equally  revolting.  Thus  year  after 
vear  the  morals  and  the  vital  strength  of  the  nation  were 
sapped,  until  at  last  it  surrendered  to  the  summons  of  its 
foe.  The  subsequent  abrogation  of  the  Sabbath,  and  the 
worship  of  Reason  were  in  keeping  with  the  progress  of  sen- 


ENIGMAS  AND  SHADOWS.  73 

suality  and  unbelief.     The  work,  so  long  in  secret  progress, 
was  suddenly  consummated.     It  would  seem  that  not  only 
poetry  and  philosophy,  and  the  drama,  but  oratory,  state- 
manship,  and  even  the  exact  sciences,  at  one  fell  swoop,  were 
borne  into  the  service  of  error.     It  was  an  age  marked  by 
tlie  brilliance  of  decay.     France  gloried  in  her  savans,  but 
theirs  was  a  science  falsely  so  called.    Thus  Voltaire,  D'Alem- 
bert,  Diderot,  and  all  to  whom  the  anxious  eye  might  have 
turned  for  counsel,  had  long  been  harrassed  by  enigmas,  and 
from  the  Cimmerian  shadows  of  that  maze,  into  which  they 
had  been  led,  their  voices  were  heard,  in  hopeless  confusion, 
and  after  many  fearful  throes  the  mind  of  France  collapsed 
into  Atheism,  and  shrieked  "  ihere  is  no  Godf'    Yet  even  now, 
had  there  been  some  solemn  and  heaven-insjjired  voice,  sound- 
ing like  a  trumpet  through  the  land,  to  rebuke  this  impious 
Atheism,  and  to  summon  it  back  to  the  faith  of  the  persecuted 
Huguenot,   France  might  have  been  spared  its   streams   of 
blood — and  after  the  perils  of  revolution,  might  have  received 
an  established  liberty.      But  alas!  no  ti'umpet  voice  broke 
those  atheistic  dreams.     It  was  the  niidniglit  of  frantic  en- 
quiry; many  an  anxious  watcher  cried,  "What  of  the  night?" 
but  none  could  reply,  "The  morn  cometh!"     The  crisis  had 
been   reached,  but  its   turn  was  fatal.       One   of  Voltaire's 
soliloquies  exhibits  the  tone  of  mind  prevailing  among  the 
leaders  of  the  day.     "The  world  abomids  with  wonders,  and 
also  with  victims.     In  man  is  more  wretchedness  than  in  all 
other  animals  put  together.  *  *  *  Man  loves  life,  yet  knows 
that  he  must  die,  and  spends  his  existence  in  diffusing  the 
miseries  which  he  has  suffered — cutting  the  throats  of  his 
fellow-creatures  for  pay — cheating,  and  being  cheated.     The 
bulk  of  mankind  is  nothing  more  than  a  crowd  of  wretches, 
>  4 


74  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

equally  criminal,  and  equally  inifortunate."  Thus  the  people 
asked  for  bread,  but  received  a  stone — they  looked  for  a  fish, 
but  their  teacher  gave  them  a  serpent.  This  confession  of 
hopeless  misery,  born  of  unbelief,  and  still  hardened  against 
all  cure,  may  be  contrasted  with  that  calm  expression  of  the 
Christian's  faith,  which  we  find  in  the  words  of  Howard,  as  he 
approached  the  end  of  his  wonderful  career.  "  My  immortal 
soul  I  cast  on  the  sovereign  mercy  of  God,  through  Jesus 
Christ,  who  is  the  Lord,  my  strength  and  my  song,  and  who,  I 
trust,  has  become  my  salvation.  My  desire  is  to  be  washed, 
cleansed,  and  justified  in  the  blood  of  Christ,  and  to  dedicate 
myself  to  that  Savior  who  has  bought  me  with  a  price." 

In  this  simple  utterance  is  contained  the  principle  which 
conserves  and  supports,  not  only  the  individual,  but  the  body 
politic,  and  in  which  is  found  that  virtuous  "  Moly"  of  which 
Milton  spake,  and  for  want  of  which  France  so  severely  suf- 
fered. Such,  then,  was  the  state  of  the  public  mind  when 
Paine  entered  the  capital.  It  was  no  longer  that  gay  and 
thoughtless  Paris,  whose  existence  had  been  a  life-long  holi- 
day. France  had  ceased  to  be  la  belle,  and  Paris  was  no 
longer  light  hearted.  She  had  put  off  her  beautiful  garments, 
and  sat  in  dismal  shadow.  The  very  houses  wore  a  sadness, 
and  the  streets  appeared  like  avenues  through  which  some 
august  and  sombre  funeral  pomp  has  swept  in  long  array, 
leaving  behind  it  the  hush  of  unutterable  sorrow.  Those  of 
the  citizens  who  appeared  by  day,  seemed  watehfiil  and  sus- 
picious, and  strangely  taciturn  and  repellant;  while  from 
many  a  countenance  there  stole  an  expression  of  woe,  too  deep 
for  tears.  In  market,  and  boulevard,  and  cafe,  each  eyed  the 
other  with  distrust,  and  haimard  countenances  exchanged 
recognition  in  timid  and  hasty  glances.     But  at  night  all  was 


H 
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W 


PARISIAN  THEATRICALS.  75 

changed.  Then  the  restraint  of  public  gaze  was  removed,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  day  were  suddenly  exchanged  for  the  glare 
and  excitement  of  maddened  dissipation.  Such  is  the  picture 
drawn  at  this  time  by  Madame  Roland :  "  Paris,  like  another 
Babylon,  sees  its  brutalised  population  either  running  after 
ridiculous  public  fHes,  or  surfeiting  itself  with  the  blood 
of  crowds  of  unhappy  creatures,  sacrificed  to  its  ferocious 
jealousy;  while  selfish  idlers  still  fill  all  the  theatres,  and  the 
trembling  tradesman  shuts  himself  up,  not  sure  of  ever  sleep- 
ing again  in  his  own  bed,  if  it  should  please  any  of  his  neigh- 
bors to  denounce  him  as  having  used  unpatriotic  expressions. 
*  *  *  O,  my  country,  into  what  hands  art  thou  fallen !" 

Thus  the  excitements  of  the  masses  gave  birth  to  the 
strange  contrast  of  deepest  gloom,  set  off  by  a  degree  of 
midnight  levity,  which  seems  almost  frantic.  Perhaps  the 
public  mind,  recoiling  from  daily  scenes  of  horror,  demanded 
and  found  relief  in  the  most  frivolous  amusements. 

We  find  in  the  Monitexir,  during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  the 
following  theatres  advertised,  under  the  expressive  head  of 
"  spectacles r  These  in  their  performances  attempt  political 
lessons,  and  thus  illustrate  the  public  appetite,  which  now, 
oblivious  of  Moliere  and  Corneille,  craved  such  instruction, 
even  in  its  amusements.  In  his  wildest  dissipation  the  Sans 
Culotte  must  not  forget  that  he  governed  France. 

Academic  de  la  Musique — "The  Offering  to  Liberty." 

Theatre  de  la  Nation — "Recreations  of  the  New  Regime." 

Theatre  de  I'Opera— "The  Siege  of  Lille;"  "The  Rigors  of 
the  Cloister." 

Theatre  de  la  Republique — "Clementine  and  the  De- 
formed;" "The  Young  Landlady." 

Theatre  de  la  Rue  Feydeau— "The  Officials  of  Fortune." 


76  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

Theatre  de  la  Montansicr,  au  Jardin  de  I'Egalite — "The 
Disguises  of  Love." 

Theatre  National — "J.  J.  Rousseau  at  the  Paraclete;" 
"The  Constitution  at  Constantinople." 

Theatre  de  la  Rue  Louvois — "The  Patriotic  Guard;"  "A^ 
Day  at  the  Vatican." 

Theatre  National  de  Moliere — "The  True  Friends  of  the 
Law,  or  the  Republican  put  to  Proof" 

Theatre  du  Vaudeville — "The  Chosen  Spirit  in  Apotheo- 
sis;" "George  and  Fat  John." 

Theatre  du  Palais  Varieties — "The  Friend  of  the  People 
and  the  Social  Comedian." 

Theatre  du  Lycee  des  Arts — "Tiie  Capuchin  at  the  Fron- 
tiers;" "The  Amours  of  Plailly;"  "La  Bascule"  (The  Sweep, 
a  part  of  the  guillotine). 

Theatre  Fran^ais — "Nicodemus  in  the  Moon;"  "The  Qua- 
ker in  France." 

In  this  catalogue  scarcely  a  play  of  soberness  or  dignity 
can  be  found — frivolity  and  bloodshed,  even  in  scenes  of 
amusement,  were  proving  that  extremes  had  fully  met. 

In  addition  to  the  theatrical  shows,  Citizen  Franconi,  of 
"L' Amphitheatre  d'Astley,"  announces  that  "avec  ses  elcves, 
el  ses  enfans,  il  continue  ses  exercises  cf equitation,  et  (T emula- 
tion, tour  de  manege,  danse  sur  des  chevaux,  avec  plusieurs 
scenes  et  entr'  actes  atntfsans.^^ 

As  the  fever  wrought  more  fiercely  upon  the  public  mind 
the  Drama  became  still  more  patriotic,  and  lessons  in  ethics 
were  travestied  on  the  stage.  Thus  we  find  in  Ihe  Monitenr, 
a  few  weeks  later,  that  the  "Theatre  du  Citie"  invites  the 
public  to  witness  "Tiie  Follies  of  George,  or  the  Opening  of 
the  British  Parliament."     The  Theatre  Louvois  chances  its 


FREXZT  AND  AMUSEMENT.  77 

name  to  "Amis  de  la  Patrie;"  and  the  Theatre  of  Moliere 
assumes  the  more  popular  style  of  "Theatre  du  Sans-culottes," 
in  which  is  enacted  "The  Inauguration  of  the  French  Repub- 
lic"_a  performance  in  which  the  whole  nation  had  been  for 
three  years  engaged,  at  the  cost  of  rivers  of  blood.  In  addi- 
tion to  these,  the  Theatre  du  Vaudeville  offers  "The  Hhppy 
Decade;"  the  Theatre  du  Lycee  des  Arts  "The  History  of 
Mankind;"  and  the  Theatre  du  Pantheon  "The  Shipwreck  of 
Kings  on  the  Island  of  Reason." 

In  dread  Thermidor,  the  same  page  which  announces  the 
fall  of  Robespierre,  and  reports  at  length  the  terrific  debate 
which  preceded  it,  at  the  same  time  giving  the  long  register 
of  the  victims  of  the  guillotine  during  the  previous  day,  with 
all  the  detail  of  name,  age,  and  profession— is  garnished  with 
the  attractions  of  eleven  theatres,  among  which  are  to  be 
performed,  "The  Hearts  of  Marathon,"  "The  Conspirator  for 
Liberty,"  and  "The  Approved  Republican."  As  if  this  con- 
trast were  not  enough,  we  are  startled  by  the  advertisement 
of  Citizen  Franooni,  who  has  all  along  been  continuing  his 
feats,  and  even  giving  lessons  in  "balaiiciie''  and  "volage,'' 
every  morning,  to  either  sex — distancing  his  past  efforts,  he 
now  announces  "wne  fete  civique,^^  which  "he  will  celebrate 
with  all  the  pomp  of  which  it  is  susceptible,  and  will  close 
with  the  entrance  of  a  car  of  the  shape  of  a  national  pavilion, 
illuminated,  and  drawn  by  four  horses,  richly  harnessed;  all 
of  which  is  to  be  preceded  by  exercises  of  balancing,  horse- 
back dances,  and  inter-acts  of  the  most  amusing  character." 

These  facts  will  show  that  reveries  of  political  and  social  per- 
fection were  absorbing  the  metropolis — indeed^  the  past  three 
years  had  been  given  to  dreams.  The  starving  masses,  which 
so  often  thronged  the  avenues  to  the  States  General  and  the 


78  THE  EEVOLUTIOKIST. 

Assembly,  were  dreaming  of  some  future  day  of  abundant 
bread.  The  mechanic  at  his  bench,  or  as  he  paced  homeward, 
in  nervous  discontent,  dreamed  of  what  men  called  Liberty, 
lie  knew  not  wholly  what  it  was,  but  he  well  knew  what  it 
was  not — it  was  no  taxes,  no  priest,  no  Bastile,  no  king;  or 
if  the  idea  assumed  a  positive  shape,  it  was  plenty  of  food  fur 
the  wife  and  children,  now  famishing  in  the  faubourg — it  was 
diminished  labor — it  was  music,  fetes,  and  joys  of  sense,  to 
compensate  for  past  oppression.  And  the  motto  of  the 
dreamer  was,  "  Eeason  is  supreme — death  is  an  eternal 
sleep — there  is  no  God!"  The  man  of  books  dreamed,  as 
well  as  the  artisan;  and  the  grisette,  as  well  as  the  savant, 
yielded  to  the  charmed  visions  of  beatitude.  That  word, 
about  which  clustered  every  other  bliss,  was  liberty.  But  it 
was  not  the  liberty  of  Truth,  for  of  this  they  had  no  concep- 
tion. On  the  other  hand,  it  was  that  wild  exemption  from 
restraint,  which  constitutes  the  elysium  of  the  ignorant  and 
the  depraved.     Of  such  Milton  spoke,  at  an  earlier  day : 

"  They  bawl  for  freedom,  in  their  senseless  mood, 

And  then  revolt  when  Truth  would  make  them  free ; 
License  they  mean,  when  they  cry  '  Liberty,' 
For  who  loves  that  must  first  be  wise  and  good." 

For  models,  some  retreated  into  ancient  myths :  with  them 
each  man  was  to  be  a  Brutus,  each  woman  a  Lucretia — Avhile 
others  were  carried  away  with  exemplary  fables  from  the 
recent  heroism  of  America.*     There  was  to  be  no  more  pollti- 

*  "When  Dr.  Warren  fell  on  the  American  shores  beneath  the  fire  of 
the  Enj^lish,  his  shirt,  stained  with  blood,  was  borne  to  a  temple.  The 
orator  expatiated  upon  the  country's  loss,  and  exclaimed  to  his  auditors: 
'Whenever  liberty  shall  be  in  danger,  call  your  children — exhibit  to  tliem 
even  a  shred  of  Warren's  ensanguined  shirt,  and  then  give  them  their 


DOUBTS  IN  THE  CONVENTION.  79 

cal  fraud ;  honesty  and  love  were  to  inspire  each  department, 
and  all  were  to  be  happy.  And  the  motto  which  floated  over 
this  approaching  paradise,  was  "reason  is  supreme— death  is 
an  eternal  sleep — there  is  no  God." 

Hardly  had  Paine  taken  his  scat  in  the  Convention,  when  it 
became  wrought  up  to  frenzy— like  the  madman,  when  from 
quiet  moods  he  leaps  up,  frantic.  The  capital  defect  in  its 
operations  now  revealed  itself,  in  appalling  magnitude— it 
was  the  want  of  common  faith.  The  factions  of  a  Convention 
which  never  had  exhibited  mutual  confidence,  now  met,  day 
after  day,  beneath  the  withering  shadow  of  distrust.  Each 
member  was  the  object  of  diverse  suspicion,  and  the  throb  of 
doubt  increased,  until  it  shook  the  nation,  from  Paris  to  the 
frontier. 

"  There  is  unsoundness  in  the  state — tomorrow 
Shall  see  it  cleansed  by  wholesome  massacre." 

Such,  indeed,  soon  became  the  motto  of  each  leader.  Fac- 
tion could  alone  be  healed  by  purity  of  principle,  and  purga- 
tion must  be  complete,  even  if  it  drain  the  best  blood  in  the 
land.  This  process  had  been  applied  to  the  priesthood— to 
the  noblesse,  and  even  to  the  Royal  line — now  it  was  brought 
home  to  the  Convention  itself.  "There  be  traitors  among 
us !"  is  the  cry  of  citizen  Robespierce.  The  eyes  of  some  of 
those  madmen  fire  at  that  word,  with  a  lurid  gleam  of  joy. 


arms.'  The  assembly  swore  to  conquer,  or  to  be  buried  beneath  the 
smouldering  ruins  of  their  country ;  and  even  the  children  repeated  with 
enthusiasm  the  language  of  their  fathers."— >S/)eec/t  o/  Gregoire,  Chairman 
of  the  Commitlee  of  Public  Listrudion. — Proceedings  of  Convention,  Moni- 
teur,  Sept.  29,  1793. 


80  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

w  hile  others  shrink  and  shiver  in  their  seats,  spell-bound  to 
the  fate  which  awaits  them.* 

As  one  enters  upon  this  tumultuous  scene,  every  member 
is  gasping  with  excitement,  until  some  one  has  gained  the 
tribune,  and  will  be  heard.  Then  flows  the  stream  of  elo- 
quence, kindling  with  passion  and  sentiment,  and  thrilling  the 
soul,  as  it  touches  its  secret  springs,  yet  after  all  scathing  as  a 
river  of  lava.  Here  are  Brissot,  Roland,  Danton  and  Verg- 
niaud,  whose  very  voices  have  the  flash  and  gleam  of  drawn 
swords,  and  then  is  heard,  in  strange  contrast,  the  tones  of 
citizen  Robespierre — soft  as  the  summer  wind  breathing  on 
the  harp.  The  debate  waxes  hot,  and  the  changing  features 
tell  of  dire  internal  conflicts,  whose  convulsions  are  writ  on 
every  face,  until  the  haggard  lineaments  flash  in  frenzy,  and 
at  last  the  storm  fells  upon  some  of  that  wretched  number, 
whose  next  scene  will  be  the  tribunal  and  the  scaffold. 

One  may  follow  them,  if  he  will,  to  that  dark  and  crowded 
apartment — rank  with  fetid  breath,  and  aghast  with  the  last 
hopeless  struggle,  where  Fouquier  and  his  fell  jury  are  dispatch- 
ing their  infernal  task.  Ai-e  there  any  forms  of  justice  left? 
One  need  hardly  ask  this,  since  the  thronging  prisoners  have 
abandoned  the  expectation.  Each  reads  his  doom  in  the 
despair  of  his  fellow  victim,  or  in  the  demon  eye  of  his  judge, 

*  Illustrations  of  Revolutionary  debate  are  given  in  the  extracts 
from  the  Moniteur,  in  the  latter  part  of  this  volume.  From  these  it  is 
evident  that  ordinary  parliamentary  decorum  was  forgotten — no  restric- 
tion was  imposed  on  personality,  and  the  frequent  tumults  which  drown 
all  semblance  of  order  are  only  appeased  (when  appeased  at  all)  by  the 
last  appeal  of  the  ciiair.  This  was  the  resuming  of  the  chapeau.  Thus 
we  often  read  in  the  Moniteur  : 

"  Une  grand  tumulte  remplit  la  salle. 

"  Le  President  se  couvre. 

"  Le  calme  renait." 


SCENES  AT  THE  GUILLOTINE.  81 

and  each,  in  turn,  passes  to  that  doom — while  from  the  lofty- 
seat  is  heard  one,  soliloquizing  in  the  interval,  "Perish,  ye 
traitors!  Shall  we  spare  you,  for  beauty,  youth  or  sex? 
Heaven  forbid!"  Louder  tones  beside  these  chide  each 
moment  of  delay — "  clear  the  place  for  the  next  fournee — the 
time  is  precious.  Collot  D'Herbois,  read  the  list,  that  the 
jury  may  attend.  Citizens,  to  your  duty !"  Passing  into  the 
street,  one's  steps  are  strangely  drawn,  as  by  a  magnet ;  and 
following  the  jostling  crowd,  square  after  square  is  passed, 
until  a  thousand  eyes  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  one  object 
of  unutterable  interest,  and  each  vein  thrills  with  increased 
excitement — it  is  the  cart,  laden  and  crowded  with  the  doomed. 
The  rapture  of  that  blood-thirsty  mob  is  rising  to  a  higher 
ecstacy.  Surely  this  must  equal  old  Rome,  on  gladiatorial 
days.  A  solemn  hush  entrances  all,  broken  by  no  sound  but 
the  grating  wheels,  or  the  tread  of  thousands.  Now  the  guil- 
lotine heaves  in  sight — its  black  and  weather-beaten  frame 
extended,  as  welcoming  fresh  food  to  the  insatiable  steel.  As 
they  pass  up  to  the  scaffold,  each  of  the  unfortunates  receives 
the  scrutiny  of  many  an  eager  eye.  One  may  be  a  grey- 
headed peer,  a  remnant  of  the  old  noblesse,  thus  atoning  for 
the  crime  of  rank ;  the  next  is  some  poor  artisan,  who  suffers 
for  an  unguarded  word;  another  is  a  maiden,  condemned,  she 
knows  not  for  Avhat;  while  others  may  have  been  thrown  in 
at  random,  to  fill  up  the  "  batch."     Thus  day  after  day, 

"  Through  the  streaming  streets 
Of  Paris  red-eyed  Massacre,  o'er-wearied, 
Reeled  heavily,  intoxicate  with  blood." 

At  the  close  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  when  thousands  had 
thus  perished  on  the  scaffold,  we  may  well  inquire  whether, 
after  so  great  a  sacrifice,  and  such  dire  experience,  health  and 


82  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

purity  have  been  restored  to  the  common  weal  1  The  murky- 
shadows  of  the  revolution  are  now  lifted  up,  and  as  they  pass 
away,  we  are  startled  by  that  governmental  abortion,  Avhich 
holds  a  brief  and  tottering  existence  upon  the  ruins  of  the  old 
regime.  It  claims  the  name  of  a  republic,  and  we  proceed  to 
contrast  its  petty  doubts — its  atmosphere  of  suspicion — and 
its  shifting  measures,  with  the  simple  dignity  and  truth  of  the 
American  republic  of  '76. 

"  Look  upon  this  picture,  and  upon  this : 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow : 
An  eye  hke  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command — 
A  station  hke  the  herald  Mercury, 
New  hghted  on  some  Heaven-kissing  hill. 
With  fair  Hyperion's  curls — the  front  of  Jove  himself." 

The  whole  difference  lies  in  the  distorted  ethics  of  the  one, 
by  which  religion  is  made  a  jest,  and  suicide  an  honor,  while 
reason  is  defied — and  the  simple  piety  which  was  cherished  by 
the  other.  It  is  the  antithesis  between  Atheism  and  Christ- 
ianity in  the  science  of  government.  The  rock  on  which  the 
old  Directory  split  was  want  of  confidence;  it  was  crippled  by 
mutual  doubts  and  suspicions.  In  an  hour  of  sudden  danger 
it  hires  a  Corsican  soldier  to  defend  it  from  the  National  Guard, 
and  that  soldier,  on  the  moment  of  success,  becomes  an  object 
of  more  feai-ful  distrust.  It  sends  him  on  a  distant  campaign, 
hoping  that  he  may  perish  in  its  perils,  and  trembles  anew  to 
hear  of  his  return.  Its  fears  are  more  than  fulfilled,  for  the 
Corsican  scourges  its  members  from  their  offices  like  dogs, 
and  stands  defiant — the  Consul,  and  at  last  the  Emperor. 
The  atheistic  republic  is  crushed  at  his  touch,  and  in  its  place 
appears  an  empire,  extemporised  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 


THE  RESULTS  OF  SUSPICION.  83 

But  confidence  is  as  impossible  now  as  under  the  former 
reyhne.  A  net-work  of  spies  envelopes  each  town  and 
hamlet,  and  even  eacli  family,  wliile  squadrons  of  artillery 
protect  the  throne.  Napoleon  trembles  as  he  reigns — his 
ascending  progress  is  haunted  by  fear,  until  fear  ends  in 
despair  on  the  night  of  Waterloo. 

But  O,  degraded  and  atheist  France!  has  this  experience, 
bloody  even  as  it  has  been,  restored  confidence  to  thy  borders? 
The  answer  is  heard  from  the  great  upheaval  of  1848 — her 
last  spasm  for  freedom.  And  should  one  ask  what  ship- 
wrecked the  Republic,  born  amid  that  upheaval,  once  more  is 
heard  the  inevitable  reply,  want  of  common  faith.  The  bar- 
ricade has  been  well  defended — the  Tuilleries  have  been 
stormed — the  Bourbon  has  fled  in  obedience  to  the  instincts 
of  his  race.  The  provisional  government  is  formed,  but 
doubt  shrouds  its  councils — not  one  of  its  members  has  con- 
fidence in  his  associates.  Marrast  doubts  Ledru  Rollin — 
Louis  Blanc  doubts  Cavaignac.  The  anxious  populace,  throb- 
bing with  alternate  hope  and  fear,  doubt  them  all — it  has  no 
confidence  in  a  single  leader,  for  in  each  it  beholds  only  a  new 
tyrant. 

The  masses  once  more  throng  the  public  halls,  till  they  are 
surrounded  by  an  ocean  of  human  life — all  ranks,  sexes  and 
ages,  surging  together,  like  billows— yet  each  repelling  his 
fellow  in  distrust.  The  mob  becomes  restive — or,  rather, 
maddened  by  the  fear  of  treason.  Who  sliall  appease  its 
fury?  Send  down,  ye  care-worn  rulers,  your  prince  of  elo- 
quence to  plead  your  cause,  lest  your  day  of  doom  be  come  ! 
He  goes — the  honey-tongued  Lamartine.  His  accents  fall  on 
tlie  multitude  like  a  charmed  melody — the  tempest  subsides 
— he  appeals  to  the  national  banner — he  apostrophises  the 


84  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

Jleur  de  lis — he  sweetens  their  cup  with  the  blandishments  of 
hope.  The  reeling  government  is  saved,  for  the  time,  and 
obtains  a  respite  of  a  few  weeks.  But  the  diseased  com- 
munity is  past  restoration.  The  insurrection  of  Miiy  proves 
that  the  foundations  of  society  have  been  sapped,  and  at  last, 
in  despair,  the  nation  submits  to  the  Napoleonic  yoke. 
*****         **         *** 

The  source  of  Infidelity  is  hatred  to  God:  hence  it  is  said 
by  Paul,  "they  did  not  like  to  retain  God  in  their  know- 
ledge"* Nothing,  indeed,  can  stimulate  unbelief  so  power- 
fully as  instinctive  hate;  and  as  doubt  is  born  of  fear  and 
dislike,  so  Infidelity  springs  from  man's  natural  hatred  to  the 
ineffiible  purity  of  God.  Human  depravity  burrows  in  dark- 
ness, to  escape  the  awful  holiness  which  beams  from  the 
sapjDhire  throne;  it  hates  the  light,  because  its  deeds  are  evil. 
Hence  it  is  always  identified  with  persecution,  and  they  are 
companions,  savage  and  inseparable.  For  this  reason,  in 
order  to  exhibit  the  most  fearful  results  of  unbelief,  it  has 
been  necessary  to  cite  the  history  of  that  land  which  was 
most  richly  watered  with  the  tears  of  the  saints,  and  most 
deeply  dyed  with  martyrs'  blood ;  nor  can  one  wonder  to 
behold  the  thunderbolts  of  retribution  falling  upon  it,  in 
awful  and  relentless  succession.  They  were  the  avengers  of 
the  faggot  and  of  the  stake,  and  of  the  sacred  streams  poured 
out  in  the  cruel  dragonades ;  they  were  invoked  by  the  edicts, 
solemnly  ratified,  and  then  annulled,  at  the  nod  of  th6  priest- 
hood, and  by  the  groans  ascending  from  murdered  thousands, 
on  the  accursed  day  of  St.  Bartholomew,  f     These  it  was  that 

*  Romans,  1-28. 

•)•  In  order  to  show  how  this  retribution  was  meted  out  to  the  priest- 
hood of  that  false  rehgion,  which  was  to  so  large  a  degree  the  aijthor  of 


THE  FRUIT  OF  PERSECUTION.  85 

brought  at  last  the  great  day  of  wrath.  The  Protestant  armies 
gave  the  throne  to  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  confirmed  it  in 
peaceful  possession.     The  house  of  Bourbon  turned  against 


the  miseries  of  France,  we  translate  the  following  from  the  '^Liste  du  Con- 
damnes,"  under  the  head  of  "Affaire  des  Religieuses  Carmelite:" 

"  The  tribunal  held  in  the  Hall  of  Liberty  condemned  to  death  the  fol- 
lowing: 

"  F.  Croissy,  aged  49,  born  at  Paris,  Ex  Religieux  Carmelite. 

"M.  L.  Tresille,      aged  51,  born  at  Compiegnc,      "  "  " 

"  M.  C.  Lidoine,      aged  42,  bom  at  Paris,  "  "  " 

"A.  RousscI,  aged  52,  born  at  Fresne  "  "  " 

"E.  J.  Verzolat,     aged  30,  born  at  Leigne  "  "  " 

"  R.  Chretien,         aged  57,  born  at  Loreux,  "  "  " 

"M.  C.  C.  Brard,    aged  58,  born  at  Bourt,  "  "  " 

"L.  Souron,  aged  55,  born  at  Compiegne,     "  "  " 

"A.  Pelleret,  aged  64,  born  at  Cozars,  "  "  " 

"M.  A.  Piedcourt,  acfed  78,  born  at  Paris,  "  "  " 

"  M.  Thoursett,       affed  1Q,  hovn  at  Meux,  "  "  " 

"  M.  J.  Meunier,  aged  29,  born  at  Franciade,  Novice  Carmelite. 
"  Convicted  of  having  declared  themselves  the  enemies  of  the  people, 
and  of  having  conspired  against  their  sovereignty ;  of  giving  intelligence 
to  the  enemies  of  the  Republic ;  of  conspiring  with  the  enemies  of  France, 
and  imprisoning  patriots ;  of  becoming  the  partisans  of  Lafayette  and  Du- 
mourier;  of  proclaiming  that  tlie  Prussians  were  Jine  Jdlows  ;  of  preserv- 
ing the  writings  of  liberticides ;  of  opposing  the  recruiting  service,  and 
seeking  to  stir  up  the  people  to  counter-revolution ; — and  were  executed  the 
same  dav." 

This  ^^fournie"  of  unfortunate  ecclesiastics,  who  suffered  under  such 
absurd  charges,  was  guillothied,  not  far  from  the  church  of  Saint  Etienne, 
whose  bell  tolled  the  signal  for  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Day. 
Their  case  is  but  a  sample  of  the  wholesale  butchery  with  which  priest- 
craft was  visited,  and  even  the  hoary  hairs  of  four  score  could  not  com- 
mand sympathy  from  the  bloodthirsty  tribunal.  But  was  it  not  in  those 
very  streets  that  Admiral  Coligny  was  massacred — a  reverend  old  man, 
whose  only  crime  was  Protestantism — and  who  shared  the  general  slaugh- 
ter of  that  fearful  day  ? 


8G  THE  REVOLUTIOXIST. 

its  fiiithful  allies,  and  re\^arcling  them  with  treachery,  sold 
itself  to  work  out  the  abominations  of  Rome. 

If  ever  there  was  a  house  that  wore  out  the  patience  of  the 
Most  High,  it  was  that  of  Bourbon.  If  ever  there  was  a 
nation  drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  saints,  it  was  France. 
She  destroyed  the  religious  faith  of  her  people,  to  please  the 
harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills,  and  with  the  fall  of  the  Protestant 
church  France  also  fell,  self  stabbed.  O,  no  sword  of  man 
ever  dealt  a  wound  so  deadly  as  that  received  from  the  vij^er 
coiled  in  her  own  breast.  No  retreat  from  Moscow,  nor 
Waterloo,  nor  even  a  continent  in  arms,  were  half  the  foe 
that  God  raised  up  in  the  work  of  her  own  hands.  Infidelity 
effloresced  in  national  insanity,  and  the  madman,  when  unre- 
strained, is  his  own  destroyer.  We  turn  gladly  from  this  sad 
lesson,  to  the  nobler  illustration  afforded  in  the  history  of 
America.  The  great  moral  preparation  for  tlie  Revolution 
was  the  religious  awakening,  which  from  1730  to  1750 
spread  througliout  the  colonies.*  It  was  an  era  which, 
instead  of  a  Hume,  a  Voltaire,  or  a  Shelley,  developed  the 
majestic  Edwards,  and  the  fervent  Brainerd,  and  supplied 
the  nation  with  a  generation  imbued  with  j)iety  and  pa- 
triotism. 

*  Even  at  so  early  a  day  as  1735  the  great  revival  then  pcrvadhig  the 
land  was  considered  by  a  few  leading  minds  as  the  herald  of  some  grand 
feature  in  the  world's  progress ;  and  Jonathan  Edwards,  in  a  sermon  of 
that  date,  uses  the  following  remarkable  language :  "  God  seems,  by  the 
things  which  he  is  doing  among  us,  to  be  coming  forth  for  some  great 
thing.  The  work  whicli  hath  lately  been  wrought  among  us  is  no  ordi- 
nary thing.  He  doth  not  work  in  His  usual  way,  but  in  a  way  very  ex- 
traordihary ;  and  it  is  probable  that  it  is  a  forerunner  of  some  great  revolu- 
tion. We  must  not  pretend  to  say  what  is  in  tlie  womb  of  Providence,  or 
what  is  in  the  book*  of  God's  secret  decrees — yet  we  may,  and  owjht  to, 
discern  the  sir/nn  of  tJwsc  times." 


RELIGION  AND  LIBERTY.  87 

"  Men  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing,  dat>  maintain; 
Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant,  while  they  rend  the  chain." 

Beside  this,  Harvard,  and  Yale,  and  Nassau  Hall  afforded 
education  of  an  evangelical  tone.  Learning  dwelt  beneath 
the  guardianship  of  piety,  and  supplied  not  only  pastors  for 
the  flocks,  but  also  furnished  statesmen  of  the  highest  charac- 
ter. Thus  from  the  least  to  the  greatest  of  her  citizens, 
America  could  glory  in  that  which  were  truly  worthy  of 
Burke's  magnificent  expression,  "the  unbought  grace  of  life, 
the  cheap  defence  of  nations— the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment 
and  heroic  enterprise."  It  was  a  necessary  result  that  good 
faith  should  afford  strength  to  the  nascent  republic,  and  hence, 
in  all  the  debates  which  preceded  the  final  appeal  to  arms, 
the  leading  feature  was  mutual  confidence.  It  was  this  also 
which  nerved  the  Father  of  his  Country  to  new  efforts  during 
the  protracted  struggle.  A  firm  believer  in  Christianity  and 
its  doctrine  of  a  particular  Providence,  confidence  in  his 
associates  was  a  necessary  result,  for  most  of  them  professed 
a  similar  foith.  Hence  we  seldom  find  him  doubting  the 
fidelity  of  his  men,  and  however  deficient  they  may  have 
proved  in  strategy,  he  reposed  in  their  truth.  While  Put- 
nam, Greene,  Nash,  Mercer,  Wayne,'  and  others  served  under 
his  command,  his  confidence  was  never  forfeited.  Had  he 
been  devoured  by  suspicions,  it  is  evident  that  national 
success  would  have  been  long  delayed,  and  it  is  possible  that 
the  colonies  might  have  still  remained  under  British  dominion. 
It  is  a  circumstance  hardly  paralleled  in  tlic  history  of  nations, 
that  while  there  was  an  envious  Lee,  an  intriguing  Conway, 
and  a  vain-glorious  Gates,  this  sublime  confidence  was,  during 


88  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

a  seven  years'  war,  never  betrayed,  save  in  one  wretched 
exception,  and  that  the  annals  of  the  revolution  record  but 
one  traitor. 

During  his  attendance  on  the  Convention,  Paine  composed 
that  volume  which  has  so  justly  rendered  him  infamous.  Ilis 
mind  had  for  years  rankled  with  anti-Christian  prejudices,  but 
so  long  as  he  dwelt  in  America  the  power  of  public  senti- 
ment checked  its  utterance.  But  the  time  had  arrived  when 
no  popular  voice  could  rebuke  his  pen,  while  the  atmosphere 
of  Paris,  redolent  of  doubt,  yielded  new  inspiration.  In 
addition  to  these  facilities,  there  was  a  need  of  recreation 
from  the  duties  of  the  Convention,  whose  sittings  could  net 
but  be  wearisome  to  one  destitute  of  national  sympathy, 
and  utterly  ignorant  of  the  French  tongue.  It  was  there- 
fore an  opportunity  of  relieving  himself  of  a  long-accumu- 
lated mass  of  sophistry  and  conceit,  and  the  stately  title 
of  "Age  of  Reason"  garnished  a  volume  in  which  reason  is 
unknown.  If  any  apology  be  necessary  fur  the  obtrusion  of 
such  a  book  upon  the  reader,  let  it  be  found  in  its  representa- 
tive character.  It  is  an  apt  illustration  of  both  the  honesty 
and  method  of  that  controversy  in  which  it  bears  a  part.  It 
assumes  to  be  an  examination  of  the  Scriptures,  with  respect 
to  their  authenticity,  the  character  of  their  teachings,  and 
their  influence  upon  mankind.  It  also  embraces  a  disserta- 
tion upon  the  miracles  of  Christ,  and  the  facts  of  his  life  and 
death,  and  resurrection,  as  they  are  accepted  by  evangelical 
Christianity.  It  may  be  well  to  note  the  circumstances  under 
which  this  examination  was  made.  Considering  the  momen- 
tous nature  of  the  subject,  one  might  reasonably  suppose  that 
such  a  task  would  require  an  acquaintance  with  both  ancient 
and  modern  authorities,  and  that  when  complete,  it  would 


THE  AGE  OF  REASON— WHERE  WRITTEN.  89 

exhibit  a  careful  collation  of  manuscripts,  a  research  of 
antiquities,  and  a  calm  balance  of  the  evidence  afforded  by 
history  and  experience.  So  fur  however  from  realizing  this 
idea,  the  "Age  of  Reason"  sprang  from  the  brain  of  a  poli- 
tical agitator,  amid  the  social  ferment  v^'hich  preceded  the 
Reisn  of  Terror.  Its  author  admits  that  he  had  seldom  if 
ever  either  attended  evangelical  worship,  or  listened  to  the 
instruction  of  the  pulpit — or  mingled  with  Christian  society. 
But  to  say  nothing  of  this  deficiency  of  experience,  he  was 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  original  languages  of  the  Scriptures. 
As  to  the  explication  of  such  obscure  passages  as  are  found  in 
the  English  version,  as  to  the  views  of  commentators,  or  even 
as  to  Biblical  criticism,  in  any  shape,  he  confessed,  or  rather 
proclaimed  his  ignorance;  while,  to  complete  an  act  of  con- 
summate blasphemy,  it  was  only  necessary  for  liim  to  boast 
that  he  was  destitute  of  a  copy  of  the  Scriptures,  even  while 
penning  his  attack  upon  them. 

We  cannot  Init  mark  the  cool  assurance  with  which  he 
states  a  circumstance  which,  for  audacity,  has  hardly  a  paral- 
lel in  all  literature:    "  Under  these  disadvantages  I  began  the 

former  'part  of  the  Age  of  Reason;  I  had  besides  neither  Bible 
nor  Testament  to  refer  to,  though  I  was  tvriting  against  both 

.  — (he  does  not  appear  to  understand,  that  the  one  included 
the  other) — nor  could  I  procure  any  ;  notwithstanding  ^vhich 
I  have  prod}(ced  a  work  that  no  Bible  believer,  though  writing 
at  his  ease,  and  ivith  a  librarg  of  church  books  about  him  can 
refute.''''  The  author  dedicated  his  book  to  the  people  of 
America,  and  then  entrusted  it  to  the  care  of  an  American 
ambassador,  who  was  returning  to  his  native  land.  This 
ambassador  was  Joel  Barlow,  whose  principles  appear  to 
have  been  even  worse  tlian  his  poetry,  and  had  he  not  been  a 


90  THE  REVOLUTIOKIST. 

follower  of  Paine,  we  should  have  been  surprised  at  his  thus 
bearing  honae  a  volume  charged  with  poison.  It  is  a  niatlcr 
of  more  serious  surprise  that  the  volume  thus  introduced  was 
printed  by  a  house  which,  in  after  years,  became  noted  for 
the  publication  of  Bibles,  prayer  books,  and  general  religious 
literature — a  distinction  enjoyed  by  its  successors  to  the 
present  day.  These  circumstances  prove  that  Infidelity  was 
then  far  more  prevalent  than  it  is  now.  The  influence  of  the 
French  army  and  the  associations  arising  from  the  recent 
alliance  of  the  two  nations  had  largely  undermined  public 
sentiment.  At  the  present  day  no  ambassador  would  dare 
offer  a  similar  volume  to  his  country,  and  no  respecta\(le 
printing  house  would  incur  the  infamy  of  its  publication. 

The  character  of  the  "The  Age  of  Reason"  fully  justifies  all 
that  might  be  predicated  of  a  book  produced  under  similar 
circumstances.  A  copy  of  the  first  edition  is  now  before  us, 
with  the  pungent  autograph  annotations  of  the  late  John  B. 
Romeyn.  It  is  inspired  by  hate  to  Christianity,  without 
any  disguise;  and  its  attempts  at  reasoning  are  quickly  lost 
in  the  bitter  current  of  its  enmity.  To  reply  to  such  a  book 
were  like  arguing  with  a  madman;  and  yet,  although  its 
vituperations  are  beneath  the  reach  of  calm  discussion.  Bishop 
Watson  would  not  let  it  stalk  the  land  unscathed.  A  con- 
tinued though  secret  circulation  still  perpetuates  its  errors, 
and  indicates  an  enemy  whose  character  is  not  too  degraded 
to  effect  extensive  mischief,  and  whose  attack  it  were  not 

wise  to  overlook. 

/ 
"  I  hate  when  Vice  can  bolt  her  arguments, 

And  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her  pride."  * 
The  spirit  of  the  author  is  shown  by  the  statement  "  that 

*  Comus. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  AGE  OF  REASON.       91 

having,  since  the  completion  of  the  first  part,  furnished  him- 
self with  a  Bible  and  Testament,  he  has  found  them  to  be 
much  worse  books  than  he  had  conceived."  In  his  view  "  the 
Bible  is  full  of  murder ;" — "  the  book  of  Isaiah  is  one  continued, 
incoherent,  bombastical  rant,  full  of  extravagant  metaphor, 
without  application,  and  destitute  of  meaning;" — "prophesy- 
ing is  professional  lying;"  and  his  self-complacency,  in  view 
of  this  style  of  reasoning,  is  thus  modestly  expressed:  "I 
have  gone  through  the  Bible  as  a  man  would  go  through  a 
wood  and  fell  trees."  The  author  of  Matthew's  Gospel  is 
stated  "to  have  been  an  exceeding  weak  and  foolish  man." 
The  seclusion  of  Christ  after  his  resurrection  is  "a  skulking 
privacy;"  Mark's  account  of  his  reappearance  to  the  disciples 
is  "like  a  schoolboy's  dull  story;"  and  Christ's  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  "  contains  some  good  things,  and  a  great  deal  of 
this  feigned  morality."  Paul's  sublime  discourse  on  the 
resurrection  (1st  Corinthians,  15)  "is  a  doleful  jargon,  as 
destitute  of  meaning  as  the  tolling  of  the  bell  at  the  fu- 
neral;" and  the  argument,  as  it  proceeds,  "shows  Paul  to 
have  been,  what  he  says  of  others — a  fool."  The  authenti- 
city of  the  Epistles  "is  a  matter  of  indifference" — "they  are 
either  argumentative  or  dogmatical ;  and  as  the  argument  is 
defective,  and  the  dogmatical  part  is  merely  presumptive,  it 
signifies  not  who  wrote  them."  In  an'other  place  he  exclaims : 
"What  is  it  that  we  have  learned  from  this  pretended  thing, 
called  revealed  religion  ? — nothing  that  is  useful  to  man,  and 
everything  that  is  dishonorable  to  his  maker!" 

These  extracts  sufficiently  prove  the  character  of  the  "Age 
of  Reason."  Other  passages  occur,  from  whose  levity  and 
obscenity  one  cannot  but  revolt.  We  can  scarcely  credit  the 
fact  that  they  were  written  by  the  author  of  "  Common  Sense" 


92  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

and  "The  Crisis,"  and  here  we  have  a  proof  of  the  natural 
blindness  of  the  understanding,  and  the  corresponding  per- 
version of  the  heart.  There  is  no  darkness  like  that  of  the 
impure  and  God-hating  intellect  of  man. 

We  add,  in  conclusion,  the  author's  opinion  of  the  four 
Gospels:  "It  is,  I  believe,  impossible  to  find  in  any  story 
upon  record  so  many  and  such  glaring  absurdities,  contra- 
dictions and  falsehoods  as  are  in  those  books;  they  are  more 
numerous  and  striking  than  I  had  any  expectation  of  finding 
■when  I  began  this  examination,  and  far  more  so  than  I  had 
any  idea  of  when  I  wrote  the  former  part  of  the  Age  of 
Reason;  1  had  then  neither  Bible  nor  Testament  to  refer  to, 
nor  could  I  procure  any.  My  own  situation,  even  as  to 
existence,  was  becoming  every  day  more  precarious,  and  as  I 
was  willing  to  leave  something  behind  me  upon  the  subject, 
I  was  obliged  to  be  quick  and  precise.  Tlie  quotations* 
I  then  made  were  from  memory  only,  but  they  are  correct; 
and  the  opinions  I  have  advanced  in  that  work  are  the  effect 
of  the  most  clear  and  long-established  conviction  that  the 
Bible  and  the  Testament  are  impositions  on  the  world — that 
the  fall  of  man — the  account  of  Jesus  Christ  being  the  son  of 
God,  and  of  his  dying  to  appease  the  wrath  of  God,  and  of 
salvation  by  that  strange  means — are  all  fabulous  inventions, 
dishonorable  to  the  power  and  wisdom  of  the  Almighty ; 
that  the  only  true  religion  is  Deism,  by  which  I  then  meant, 
and  now  mean,  the  belief  of  one  God,  and  an  imitation  of  his 

*  The  following  are  all  the  quotations  in  the  part  referred  to:  "The 
Lord  spake  unto  Moses,  saying:"  "Thou  shalt  surely  die;"  "An  evil 
spirit  from  the  Lord ;"  "Canst  thou,  by  searching,  find  out  God — canst 
thou  find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  ?  "  "  All  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world ;"  "  Lo  here !  lo  there ! "  "  Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field— they  toil 
not,  neither  do  they  spin." 


PAINE'S  YIBW  OF  THE  BIBLE.  93 

moral  character,  or  the  practice  of  what  are  called  the  moral 
virtues;  and  that  it  was  upon  this  only  (so  far  as  religion  is 
concerned)  that  I  rested  all  my  happiness  hereafter.  So  say 
I  now,  and  so  help  me  God." 

We  thus  give  the  wretched  man's  profession,  in  order  that 
he  may  enjoy  the  position  which  he  seems  to  have  envied,  as 
tlie  model  Deist  of  his  day;  and  we  add  the  following  as  his 
conclusion  of  the  whole  matter:  "Of  all  the  systems  of 
religion  that  ever  were  invented,  there  is  none  more  deroga- 
tory to  the  Almighty,  more  unedifying  to  man,  more  repug- 
nant to  reason,  and  more  contradictory  in  itself,  than  this 
thing  called  Christianity." 

We  have  spoken  of  the  "Age  of  Reason"  as  a  representa- 
tive book.  Its  impudent  ignorance  sets  forth  the  chief  charac- 
teristic of  Deistical  literature.  We  may  not  expect  our 
adversaries  to  be  conversant  with  nice  points  of  doctrine, 
but  one  cannot  but  be  surprised  to  see  matters  not  merely 
of  opinion,  but  of  criticism  and  history  misrepresented, 
until  Christianity  is  thrust  before  the  world,  in  all  the  de- 
formity of  prejudice  and  hate.*  If  the  "Age  of  Reason" 
exhibits  a  misapprehension  of  scriptural  piety,  and  a  perver- 
sion of  scriptural  facts,  does  it  not  find  a  parallel  in  Hume, 
Shelley,  Volney,  and  we  may  add,  the  Westminster  review- 
ers,   none    of  whom    have   the   excuse  which   might  shield 

*  "  No  man  ever  candidly  and  perseveringly  studied  the  system  of  truth 
presented  in  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  without  finding  his  belief  follow. 
Where  there  is  belief — real,  firm  belief,  that  belief  will  result  in  corre- 
sponding aifections ;  these  affections  necessarily  lead  to  a  holy  life. 
********* 

"  The  grand  error  of  free-thinkers,  and  that  which  should  be  pressed 
home  on  them,  is  their  obstinate  persistency  in  going  blindfold,  when  a 
Ught  from  Heaven  is  offered  them." — J.  W.  Alexander'' s  Letters  to  Dr.  Hall. 


94  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

the  rude  stay-maker  of  Thctford?  The  reputation  of  such 
men  gives  vast  importance  to  their  dicta,  and  their  ignorant, 
yet  boasting  disciples,  rest  in  the  wisdom  of  their  teachers. 
And  yet,  despite  this  vaunted  wisdom,  there  was  one  question 
on  which  they  were  not  wise.  However  deep  may  have  been 
their  investigations  elsewhere,  here  they  Avere  superficial; 
and  however  enlightened  they  otherwise  were,  they  were  here 
as  ignorant  as  the  unlettered  mass  of  their  followers. 

An  examination  of  the  Deistical  controversy  convinces  us 
that  the  only  exception  to  the  statement  is  in  the  case  of 
those  whose  love  of  sin  has  confirmed  them  in  opposition  to 
Christianity,  even  while  convinced  of  its  truth.  To  such,  the 
Earl  of  Rochester  referred,  when  in  his  last  moments,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  Bible,  he  exclaimed:  "  Thei-e  is  true  2Jhiloso- 
phy.  This  is  the  loisdom  that  speaks  to  the  heart;  a  bad  life 
is  the  onhj  grand  objection  to  this  book."* 

*  "And  now  that  a  professed  communication  is  before  me,  and  that  it 
has  all  the  soHdity  of  the  experimental  evidence  on  its  side,  and  nothing 
but  the  reveries  of  a  daring  speculation  to  oppose  it,  what  is  the  consist- 
ent— what  is  the  rational — and  what  is  the  philosophical  use  that  should 
he  made  of  tiiis  document,  but  to  set  me  down,  like  a  schoolboy,  to  the 
work  of  turning  its  pages,  and  conning  its  lessons,  and  submitting  the 
every  exercise  of  my  judgment  to  its  information  and  its  testimon}'. 

"We  know  that  there  is  a  superficial  philosophy  which  casts  the  glare 
of  a  most  seducing  brilliancy  around  it,  and  spurns  the  Bible,  with  all  the 
doctrine  and  all  the  piety  of  the  Bible  away  from  it.  *  *  *  But  it  is  not 
the  solid,  the  profound,  the  cautious  spirit  of  that  philosophy  (that  of 
Newton)  which  has  done  so  much  to  ennoble  the  modern  period  of  our 
world;  for  the  more  that  this  spirit  is  cultivated  and  understood,  tlie 
more  will  it  be  found  in  alliance  with  that  spirit  in  virtue  of  which  all  that 
exalteth  itself  against  the  knowledge  of  God  is  humbled,  and  all  lofty 
imaginations  are  cast  down,  and  every  thought  of  the  heart  is  brought 
into  the  captivity  of  the  obedience  of  Christ." — Chulincrs'  Astronomical 
Discourses. 


PAINE  ARRESTED.  95 

The  first  part  of  the  "Age  of  Reason"  had  hdrely  been 
finished,  when  its  author  was  arrested,  by  order  of  the  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety.  As  a  foreigner,  and  especially  as 
sn  Englishman,  he  had  long  been  the  object  of  its  suspicion, 
a  d  his  opposition  to  the  death  of  the  King  sealed  him  to 
the  guillotine.  He  had  no  doubt  often  contrasted  the  fren- 
zied Atheism  of  his  associates  with  the  serene  dignity  of 
the  American  Congress,  whose  piety  was  confessed  by  the 
prayers  which  opened  its  daily  sessions;  but  that  contrast 
became  the  more  striking  as  he  felt  his  peril  increasing, 
from  day  to  day.  At  last  the  motion  was  carried  to  exclude 
foreigners  from  the  Convention,  and  Bourdon  de  L'Oise, 
while  speaking  on  this  question,  denounced  the  individual 
who  above  all  others  was  obnoxious.  At  three  in  the 
morning  Paine  was  seized  and  thrown  into  the  prison  of 
the  Luxembourg.  Tlie  American  residents  in  Paris  besought 
his  release,  but  tiie  Convention  refused,  on  the  score  of  his 
English  birth  and  nationality,  and  he  suffered  a  long  and  au 
almost  hopeless  imprisonment.  The  Reign  of  Terror  was  at 
its  height;  more  than  eight  thousand  wretched  citizens  were 
under  arrest,  on  political  charges,  and  as  day  by  day  the  tri- 
bunal sent  its  throng  to  the  block,  sleepless  suspicion  supplied 
new  inmates  to  the  crowded  jails. 

Paine's  imprisonment  seems  only  a  natural  turn  in  a 
destiny  so  strange  as  his.  It  was  but  a  3'^ear  since  the 
death  of  the  king,  yet  within  that  year  what  scenes  liad 
met  his  gaze !  He  had  witnessed  the  execution  of  the 
Girondins,  and  had  shuddered  at  the  daily  /oumees  which 
rumbled  on  to  the  scaffold.  He  had  also  marked  the  clos- 
ing of  the  churches,  the  abrogation  of  the  Sabbath,  and 
the   adoration  of  a  new  deity  under  the  name  of  Reason. 


93  TEE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

Thus  he  had  seen  the  march  of  Atheism  leading  suspicion 
and  slaughter  at  either  hand,  and  yet  these  spectacles  had 
failed  to  convey  their  lesson.      Still  darkened  by  unbelief 
he  discerned  not  the  true  cause  of  the  horrors  which  sur- 
rounded him.      At  the  end  of  this  year  a  new  experience 
awaited  him,  and  he  who   had  mingled  with  the  groups  of 
the  forecastle  and  the  excise  office,  with  the  polidcal  ckibs 
of  London,  the  patriots  of  America,  and  the  legislators  of 
France,  now  learned  the  woes  of  a  prisoner  of  state.     The 
Luxembourg  had  been  an  old  and  famous  palace,  but  in 
the  exigency  of  the  times  it   had  been  transformed  into  a 
prison.      Toward  daylight   of  a  chill  wintry  morning,  its 
gates  opened  to  receive  two  members  of  the  Convention, 
who  had  nothing  in   common  but  infidelity  and  misfortune. 
They  were  the   only  foreigners    in  the  Convention,  but 
they  were  as  diverse  in  their  manners  and  opinions  as  they 
were  in  their  nationality.      The  one  was  an  Englishman, 
unlearned  in    aught   but  his  mother  tongue ;  by  birth  a 
plebeian  ;  in  age  appi'oaching  his  sixtieth  year,  and  moder- 
ated  as    respects   opinion   from  his   early   radicalism   by 
scenes  now  enacted  in  his  presence.      Besides  this  he  had 
voted   against   the   death   of  Louis.      Such    was   Thomas 
Paine  when  he  entered  the  Luxembourg   to  spend  a  year 
in  the  midst  of  gloom,  and  fear,  and  alarm,  and  despair. 

The  other  was  a  Prussian,  in  age  but  little  past  thirty, 
by  birth  a  gentleman,  to  which  had  been  added  the  title 
of  baion  ;  a  man  of  education  and  travel ;  a  member  of 
the  Moimtain ;  a  leader  in  the  famed  club  of  Jacobins, 
an  enthusiast  impelled  by  the  most  extravant  notions,  and 
one  who  had  voted  for  the  death  of  the  king,  2your  genre 
hximain. 


ARREST  OF  PAINE  AND  CLOOTZ.  97 

Sach  was  Jean  Baptiste  Clootz,  who  at  the  same  hour, 
became  a  prisoner  within  the  same  walls.      Of  this  strange 
character  few  vestiges  remain,  and  yet  from  what  may  be 
gathered  from  contemporary  allusions,  his  history,  had  it 
ever  been  written,  would  have  ranked  high  in  the  annal? 
of  the  gifted  and  eccentric,     Walter    Scott  indeed  speak? 
of  him  as  "  the  most  inimitable  character  of  the  Revolu 
tion." 

The  leading  characteristic  of  this  man  waB  a  dream  of 
human  brotherhood,  and  the  motto  which  inspired  his  ac- 
tions was  pour  genre  humain.  To  accomiDlish  his  wild 
theory  he  had  travelled  so  extensively  as  to  receive  the 
soubriquet  of  Anacharsis,  seeking  some  goal  of  human  im- 
provement. For  this  he  had  renounced  his  position  and 
become  a  Sans  Culotte,  thus  exchanging  ease  and  wealth 
for  the  society  of  Hebert,  Marat,  and  other  of  the  scum  of 
Paris.  Amid  all  the  fears  and  threateninsrs  of  La  Terreur 
(as  it  was  termed),  he  considered  his  safety  insured  by 
his  position  as  a  leader,  while  in  fact  he  was  but  a  tool  of 
Robespierre,  and  as  such  perished  in  due  time  at  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution^  under  the  usual  false  and  unvaried 
charge. 

Such  a  fate  as  this,  for  many  a  long  month,  Paine  ex- 
pected to  share.  He  had  at  an  early  day  appeared  at  the 
Tribunal  as  a  witness  in  the  mock  trial  of  Marat,  and  he 
well  knew  the  character  of  an  institution  which  gave  life 
and  death  at  the  nod  of  its  master.  By  that  master  he 
was  long  designated  for  the  guillotine,  yet  a  strange  Prov- 
idence reserved  him  for  another  end,  and  hence  he  was 
never  reached  by  the  accuser. 

In  after  years  he  loved  to  dwell  on  his  wonderful  escape, 


98  .  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

and  in  his  garrulity  he  ascribed  it  to  two  different  caiises. 
In  the  Age  of  Reason  it  is  a  severe  illness  which  saves 
him,  Avhile  in  his  letter  to  the  people  of  America — written 
six  years  afterward — it  is  the  blunder  of  the  jailor  in  chalk- 
ing the  inside  instead  of  the  outside  of  the  door  of  his  cell. 
These  variations  do  no  credit  to  his  veracity,  and  we  are 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  latter  statement  is  unreliable, 
though  it  is  possible  that  both  may  have  been  true  at  differ- 
ent periods  of  his  prison  life.  But  as  to  his  danger  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  since  among  Robespierre's  posthumous 
papers  there  was  found  an  order  to  demand  the  accusation 
of  Thomas  Payne  (he  is  always  called  Payne  in  the  Monl- 
tew')  for  the  interests  of  America  and  France.* 

The  Luxembourg,  since  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  has 
been  restored  to  its  original  splendor,  and  its  picture  gal- 
lery is  a  leading  attraction  to  the  tourist.  IIow  difficult 
must  it  be  for  such  an  one  to  imagine  those  pictures,  unre- 
corded on  canvas,  Avhich  once  unfolded  their  shadowed 
forms  to  the  dwellers  there.  Here  have  been  witnessed 
bewildering  family  scenes — haggard  parents  hovering  over 
children  soon  to  become  orphans — soft-faced  girls  whose 
gentle  eyes  were  just  kindling  with  the  glare  of  desjjair — 
grim-visaged  forms  of  lonely  suspects  torn  from  distant 
homes — soldiers  in  the  Carmagnole  uniform  just  snatched 

*  The  reason  why  Robespierre  accused  him  for  the  interests  of 
America  as  well  as  France,  was  probably  owing  to  his  fear  of  exciting 
the  displeasure  of  the  Uuited  States  if  he  destroyed  him  without  suffi- 
cient cause.  This  fear  we  think  was  the  reason  of  the  strange  delay  in 
bringing  forward  tlie  accusation,  and  if  Robespierre  could  now  show  that 
it  was  for  the  interests  of  America  to  send  him  to  the  axe,  a  great  end 
would  be  attained.  We  are  left  entirely  in  the  dark  as  to  the  way  in 
which  American  interests  were  to  bo  assisted  by  Paine's  death. 


PICTUEES  FROM  THE  LUXEMBOURG.  99 

from  the  camp — wrinkled  politicians  vainly  revolving  plans 
of  escape.  Ah,  what  pictures  of  farewells,  agliast  with 
despair — of  stout  men  sinking  to  weakness  as  their  names 
echoed  throngh  the  halls,  called  off  for  the  founiee — of 
shriekina:  women  writhing  in  the  hands  of  fiendish  officials 
who  <2:loat  over  their  fears  and  feed  high  on  their  horrors. 
Such  were  daily  exhibitions  in  the  gallery  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg seventy  years  ago. 

These  scenes  have  been  often  attempted  by  artists  both 
of  the  pen  and  pencil ;  but  little  can  be  known  of  their 
true  character  or  of  their  true  colors.  How  shall  we  por- 
tray the  stai'tling  contrasts  of  young  and  old,  of  gentry 
and  artisans,  of  plebeians  and  aristocrats,  all  huddled 
together  in  sndden  companionship  of  misery  ?  The  vast 
edifice,  like  the  other  prisons,  Avas  crowded  by  a  motley 
host  which  embraced  all  ages  and  varieties  of  social  rank. 

Every  night  new  arrests  were  made,  and  the  inquiry  was 
uttered  every  morning  concerning  those  newly  come  to 
that  place  of  woe — beside  this,  each  day  Fouquier  Tinville 
summonses  his  quota  to  the  Tribunal,  and  the  fearful  ques- 
tion ceases  not  to  agonize  the  captive  throng,  "  who  goes 
into  the  next  fournee  f' 

Paine  kept  no  record  of  the  dreary  hours  of  his  imprison- 
ment ;  but  to  his  active  mind  a  state  of  durance  must  have 
been  doubly  severe.  A  few  books  and  manuscripts  served 
to  employ  the  heavy  hours  ;  but  what  a  contrast  is  this  to 
the  prison  life  of  Bunyan,  Avhen,  instead  of  a  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  he  is  giving  the  world  the  finishing  pages  of  the 
Age  of  Reason. 

The  Luxembourg  was  a  little  world,  full  of  secret  intelli- 
gence, little   buzzing  expectations,  and  pale,  dying  hopes ; 


100  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

but  from  all  participation  with  these  Paine  was  excluded 
by  his  ignorance  of  French.  Yet  insulated  as  he  was, 
he  must  sometimes  have  shuddered  when  fresh  groups  of 
the  great  and  the  unfortunate  were  marched  along  those 
echoing  corridors. 

What  venerable  noblesse  that  dread  abode  held  during 
the  last  hours  of  life's  fitful  fever  !  Here  might  have  been 
seen  the  Senecterres,  the  Grand  Maisons,  the  Malherbes, 
the  Tonnerres — fathers  and  sons  closing  up  old  ancestries 
by  extermination — high-born  ladies  and  aged  matrons  soon 
to  totter  to  the  guillotine. 

But  a  thrill  far  more  intense  must  have  been  awakened 
by  the  appearance  of  political  magnates,  who  were  so  sud- 
denly translated  fiom  the  Convention  to  the  cell.  The  Lux- 
embourg was  a  place  of  strange  re-union,  and  Paine  could 
greet  anew  his  old  associates  in  council,  and  behold  not 
only  the  common  herd  of  Jacobins,  but  the  flower  of  the 
Mountain  itself. 

Here  might  have  been  seen  Mormoro  who  married  the 
Goddess  of  Reason  ;  Herault  Sechelles,  who  Avas  Paine's 
alternate  in  office :  Chabut,  the  chief  witness  airainst  the 
Girondins,  who  vainly  attempts  suicide  by  poison  ;  and 
Chauiriotte,  who  gloated  over  the  early  victims  of  the  axe. 
Here  is  Fabre  D'Eglantine  once  so  prominent  in  the  Con- 
vention ;  and  here  is  Hebert,  who  offered  such  infamous 
testimony  against  the  Queen  that  its  utterance  would  offend 
even  the  least  delicate  mind  of  our  day,  and  hence  it  never 
has  been  republished — now  going,  thank  God,  to  taste 
death  on  the  same  spot  where  that  noble  lady  suffered. 
Above  all,  here  is  the  brilliant,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
accomplished  Camille  Desmoulina,  the  Apollo  of  the  JIoioi- 


D ANTON  IN   THE    LUXEMBOURG.  101 

tain^  whose  tragic  fate  is  intei'woven  with  all  the  intensity 
of  domestic  love — all, — all  bound  for  the  Place  de  la  Revo- 
lution^ M^hither  their  votes  have  sent  the  unfortunate  Louis.* 
Here,  too,  in  a  few  days,  may  be  seen  the  pale  nun  who  had 
become  Robert's  bride,  and  who  is  to  share  his  fate,  and 
with  her  is  the  faltei'ing  form  of  the  once  gay  and  happy 
Lucille  Desmoulins.  Poor  Lucille,  aged  only  twenty-three, 
now  leaving  little  Horace  an  orphan  with  his  grandmother 
It  seems  but  a  day  since  that  lovely  Lucille  gave  her  hand 
to  young  Desmoulins  in  the  presence  of  a  grand  assemblage 
of  his  political  friends,  all  of  whom  have  either  fled  or  jjer- 
ished  on  the  scaffold — except  Danton  and  Robespierre,  who 
will  come  in  due  time.  A  few  days  ago  Camille  followed 
some  of  that  wedding  group  to  slaughter,  and  perhaps  his 
ghost  awaits  his  wife  at  the  place  of  death.  What  a  his- 
tory of  a  bridal  pair,  and  their  suite  of  friends  ! 

Such  was  the  concourse  of  misery  which  entered  and  de- 
parted the  Luxembourg  daily  during  Paine's  detention 
there  ;  but  at  last  appears  one  whose  name  might  have 
caused  the  very  walls  to  shudder.  What  a  sensation  was 
that  which  convulsed  the  Luxembourg  when  the  whisper 
ran  from  cell  to  cell  that  DANTON  was  there.  Danton, 
late  Minister  of  Justice,  late  oracle  of  the  Jacobins,  late 


*  Most  of  these  men  were  editors,  and  the  vigor  of  political  satire  sel- 
dom run  to  such  boldness  as  in  those  feuilletons  whose  authors  wrote 
with  the  guillotine  in  view.  Brissot  edited  Le  Courier  Franr^ais.  Hebert 
edited  Ptre  Duchesne.  Marat's  journal  was  VAmi  du  Peuple.  Camille 
Desmoulins  published  Le  Vieux  Cordelier,  a  fiery  sheet,  of  which  vast 
quantities  were  sold,  and  which  is  the  only  one  of  the  Revolutionary 
journals  which  has  been  reprinted.  Vide  Paris  edition  1825.  Camille 
Desmoulins  and  Robespierre  were  early  friends,  and  even  fellow-colle- 
gians, but  the  jealousy  of  the  latter  could  tolerate  no  rival. 


102  TUE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

pride  and  pillai*  of  the  Mountain^  now  a  prisoner,  and  in 
three  days  to  go  to  the  Tribunal  and  the  axe.  The  cap- 
tives of  the  Luxembourg  were  startled  as  by  an  earth- 
quake. What,  Danton  liere  ?  Yes !  HE  is  here !  Ah, 
Danton,  giant  of  the  Revolution,  "  hell  from  beneath  is 
moved  at  thy  coming ! — art  thou  also  become  weak  as 
Ave — art  thou  become  like  one  of  us  ?" 

Danton  and  Paine  met  and  embraced ;  misery  and 
misfortune  had  buried  differences  of  opinions,  and  a 
sense  of  fallen  greatness  overcame  them  both.  In  Danton 
there  was  an  air  of  stern  loftiness,  which,  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, became  grandeur.  He  was  the  Titan  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  Paine  could  not  have  witnessed  his  departure  for 
the  Place  de  la  Revolution^  whither  he  expected  so  soon  to 
follow,  without  confessing  an  emotion. 

Thus,  amid  daily  tragedy,  the  months  passed  drearily 
on — Nivousse^  Plumose^  Germinal,  Prarial,  Floreal,  until 
at  length  came  Thermidor,  sultry  Avith  the  summer  sun, 
but  hotter  still  with  fear,  and  dread,  and  the  fiery  war 
in  the  Convention.  All  this  while  the  axe  has  no  rest — 
La  Terreur  slumbers  not — and  the  daily  fournee  holds  its 
course  onward  through  Rue  St.  Honore  to  the  scaffold. 
On  the  20th  Prarial  Robespierre  has  inaugurated  the  Etre 
Supreme,  but  the  slaughter  ceases  not  even  under  the  rule 
of  that  very  PJtre  Supreme  which  he  has  set  up  as  the  deity 
after  his  own  heart.  The  maddening  excitement  waxes 
still  higher  in  its  pitch,  and  thrilling  rumors  begin  to  pene- 
trate the  Luxembourg.  There  are  plots  and  complots  even 
against  Robespierre  himself  Plope,  still  hope,  ye  pale 
dwellers  of  the  palace  prison — the  hour  draweth  near — he 
cannot  be  immortal — his  day  too  must  come !     But,  alas  1 


DANTOX:    XO    WEAKXLgS. 


THE  GRAND  FOURNEE. 


103 


group  after  group  departs,  bidding  farewell  even  to  hope. 
Still  the  hour  hastens  on.     It  is  the  ninth  Thermidor.    The 
i-umors  grow  still  more  rife.     He  is  accused,  so  they  say,  in 
the  very  Convention— nay,  his  arrest  is  decreed.     Prisoners 
fronting  the  street  see  friendly  signals  playing  from  distant 
house-tops.     Let  hope  grow  stronger  during  that  last  night 
of  horrors,  for  the  morn  of  deliverance  is   at  hand.     The 
sun  shines  once  more — it  is  a  sweet  summer  morn — the 
tenth  Thermidor — Decadi — day  consecrated  to  mirth — day 
for  music  and  theatricals,  fraternal  kisses,  happy  idleness, 
and  worship   of  Eire    Supreme.     It   is  just   five  JDecadis 
since  that  Eire  Supreme  was  set  up  by  Robespierre — an  in- 
fernal pentecost,  and  a  fitting  close  to  such  a  career.     The 
signals  redouble.     The  gloomy  Luxembourg  is  full  of  hope 
— so  is  the  Abbaye,  La  Force,   and  other  Parisian  jails. 
Word  comes  that  he  has  been  shot  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
Yes,  his  Avounded  body  hes  in  agony  in  a  committee-room  of 
the  Tuileries,  awaiting  the  last  hour — there  is  no  need  of 
trial,  he  has  been  mis  hors  du  loi,  OUTLAWED. 

The  cool  of  the  day  draws  neav  ;  it  is  six  o'clock  when 
the  grand  fournee  is  rumbling  toward  the  Place  de  la  Revo- 
lution. Let  us  watch  the  carts  as  they  unload.  The  vic- 
tims await  their  turn,  gazing  listlessly  upon  the  scaffold,  at 
whose  base  they  stand,  with  cropped  heads,  coats  loosely 
slung  about  their  necks,  and  hands  bound  behind.  There  is 
deformed  Couthon,  tottering  on  his  limp  legs,  contrasted 
with  St.  Just,  who  stands  erect  in  the  beauty  of  early 
manhood.  There  is  Henriot,  whose  drunkenness  lost  the 
struggle  yesterday,  but  who  will  never  be  drunk  again. 
There  is  Lebas,  and  Payan,  and  Vjvier,  and  all  that  ill- 
famed  crew,  each  to  feel  the  edge  of  ia  Salute  Guillotine,  as 


104  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

once  they  fancifully  named  the  instrument  of  death.  What  a 
fournee  for  a  Paris  mob  to  gaze  upon  ?  Was  there  ever  seen 
sucli  a  crowd  since  the  king  suifered  ?  No !  not  even  when 
the  Girondins  etemuent,*  or  the  T>m\ion  fournee  entranced 
the  city.  All  eyes  are  eager  for  the  brothers.  At  last 
they  appear — the  famed  brothers  of  the  3fotmtain — many 
brothers  they  have  sent  here  to  suffer  together,  and  the 
same  fate  shall  be  theirs.  This  is  HE  of  the  bandaged  jaw. 
"  How  art  thou  fallen,  O,  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning !" 
Thus  the  pistol  spares  Robesj^ierre  for  his  best  weapon, 
Le  rasoir  National.  A  haggard  form  appears  on  the 
scaffold — countenance  smirched  with  blood,  and  the  chin 
supported 'by  a  clotted  band.  In  a  moment  his  coat  is  off 
(that  sky-blue  coat  of  better  days),  and  regardless  of  the  cry 
of  agony  the  bandage  is  torn  away,  for  nothing  must  deaden 
the  axe's  edge.  The  form  is  strapped  to  the  bascule^  and  a 
dull,  heavy  sound  is  heard.  The  work  is  done  ;  La  Terreur 
is  destroyed,  and  Paris  breathes  free.  Thomas  Paine  shall 
not  die  on  the  scaffold,  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  will  walk  the 
streets  of  Paris,  a  wonder  to  himself  and  to  all. 

Eleven  months  had  been  passed  in  the  Luxembourg,  sur- 

*  The  heartless  character  of  a  people  stripped  of  all  religious  sentiment, 
is  shown  by  the  frivolous  epithets  applied  to  the  most  revolting  features 
in  that  day  of  horror.  Tims,  by  way  of  sport,  the  contortions  of  counte- 
nance which  followed  the  stroke  of  the  axe  were  termed  eternuer,  "  to 
sneeze."  The  cross  bar  of  the  guillotine  which  fixed  the  position  of  the 
victim  was  called  '•  the  little  window."  Fournee  was  a  term  from  tlie 
bakers,  and  meant  "an  oveufuU,"  while  "La  Sainte  Guillotine"  and  "  Le 
rasior  National,"  were  among  other  pet  terms  of  the  A^y.  "  Looking 
through  the  little  window,"  and  "sneezing  in  the  smk"  were  common  ex- 
pressions for  the  fate  of  the  doomed.  Ht-bert  is  preceded  to  tlie  PUice  de 
la  Revolution  by  men  and  even  boys,  who  mock  him  with  cries  like  those 
of  the  news-mongers,  when  hawking  his  own  journal  Fere  Duchesne. 


RETURN  TO  AMERICA.  105 

rounded  by  misery,  and  with  the  axe  gleaming  in  the 
future,  but  now  the  opened  gate  otFers  Uberty,  and  by 
one  of  those  startling  changes  which  follow  the  wheel  of 
revolution,  w^e  find  him  once  more  in  the  Convention,  a  legis- 
lator of  France  instead  of  a  victim  of  the  guillotine.  During 
all  these  vicissitudes  he  was  befriended  by  Mr.  Monroe,  the 
American  Minister,  and  subsequent  President,  who  did  not 
forget  the  claims  of  former  service. 

In  1802,  after  an  absence  of  fifteen  years,  Mr.  Jeiferson 
invited  him  to  return  to  the  United  States,  and  in  a  few 
months  he  once  more  appeared  on  our  shores.  It  was  eight 
and  twenty  years  since  those  shores  had  welcomed  the  radi- 
cal and  plebeian  democrat,  and  during  this  interval  he  had 
achieved  distinction.  The  once  obscure  adventurer  had  writ- 
ten his  name  in  the  annals  of  two  continents.  He  had  essayed 
controversy  with  the  chief  of  British  statesmen,  and  the  force 
of  his  pen  had  been  felt  in  the  high  places  of  government. 
He  had  sat  in  judgment  on  the  pale  form  of  the  Bourbon, 
and  the  King  had  sought  and  received  mercy  from  the  low- 
born mechanic.  He  had  participated  in  two  vast  revolutions, 
concerning  one  of  which  in  his  complacency  he  might  have 

said, 

" Quaeque  ipsi  misserima  vidi 

Et  quorum  pars  magna  fui." 

This  eventful  career  had  been  prolonged  through  sixty-five 
years,  and  now,  broken  and  destitute,  he  sought  a  home  in 
the  bosom  of  that  nation  whose  liberties  first  inspired  his  pen. 
He  returned  to  find  the  Eepublic,  under  the  genial  influence 
of  Christianity,  exhibiting  a  marked  contrast  to  the  vascilla- 
tions  of  French  polity;  for  though  the  presidential  chair  was 
filled  by  an  avowed  Infidel,  yet  religion  held  its  power  over 


106  THE  KEVOLUTIONIST. 

the  masses.  He  returned  to  experience  an  overwhelming 
disappointment  and  to  drink  deeply  of  that  cup  of  misery 
wliich  he  had  filled  for  the  world.  A  professed  revolutionist, 
he  had  fondly  contemplated  an  abrogation  of  that  religion 
which  so  long  had  been  the  object  of  his  hate.  He  had 
hoped,  like  all  apostates,  for  the  destruction  of  the  faith 
which  he  had  abjured.  "Soon  after,"  says  he,  "  I  had  published 
the  pamphlet  Common  Sense  I  saw  the  exceeding  probability 
that  a  revolution  in  the  system  of  governments  would  be 
followed  by  a  revolution  in  the  system  of  religion."*  Tiie 
desire  cherished  for  twenty  years,  as  he  confesses,  was  now  to 
be  utterly  disappointed.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  delusions  of 
Infidelity  to  expect  from  one  age  to  another  the  fall  of  that 
sublime  system  against  which  it  haS  directed  its  puny  yet 
malignant  attack.  The  imperial  persecutor  Diocletian  was 
so  confident  of  success,  that  he  plamied  the  jubilee  Avhich 
should  celebrate  the  extinction  of  Christianity.  Hume, 
whose  hatred  was  equally  implacable,  at  one  time  mourns 
over  the  ill  success  of  his  attacks,  but  at  another  seems  hope- 
ful tliat,  could  his  life  be  prolonged,  it  would  witness  the 
downfall  of  superstition;  and  Paine,  upon  whom  the  mantle 
of  error  so  directly  fell,  expresses  his  assurance  "  that  a  revo- 
lution in  the  system  of  government  would  be  followed  by  a 
revolution  in  the  system  of  religion."  But  the  volume  which 
these  misguided  men  hate,  establishes  the  future  safety  of  the 
chui'ch,  equally  with  that  of  the  past.  "No  weapon  that  is 
formed  against  thee  shall  prosper,  and  every  tongue  that  shall 
rise  against  thee  in  judgment  thou  shalt  condemn."  f 

The  assault  upon  truth  admits  of  no  comparison  with  other 
conflicts.     When  battling  with  European  tyranny  the  author 

*  Age  of  Reason.  -j-  Isaiah,  54-17. 


AN  INFIDEL'S  OLD  AGE.  l07 

of  the  Rights  of  Man  may  hope  for  success;  but  when,  in 
the  impious  pages  of  the  Age  of  Reason,  he  strikes  at  Christ- 
ianity, he  invokes  an  inevitable  doom.     "Whosoever  shall 
fall  on  this  stone  shall  be  broken;  but  on  whomsoever  it 
shall  fall  it  will  grind  him  to  powder."*     The  Age  of  Reason 
had  created  an  almost  national  disgust  for  its  author,  and  he 
returned  in  time  to  receive  its  full  flood — breaking  upon  his 
declining  years.     It  is  true  that  Infidel  clubs  existed  in  many 
of  the  larger  towns,  among  which  the  volume  became  autho- 
rity; it  is  also  true  that  for  a  time  it  circulated  v/ith  a  power 
of  evil,  hardly  to  be  estimated;  yet,  blasting  as  the  upas  tree, 
its  very  name  soon  re-echoed  the  anathema  which  the  nation 
breathed  upon  it — and  he  who  aspired  to  be  the  associate  of 
Franklin  and  Washington  in  the  war  of  independence,  returns 
to  the  land  of  Franklin  and  Washington  to  be  a  hissing  and 
a  reproach.     It  were  but  little  satisfaction  to  have  received 
the  courtesies  of  the  President  and  the  transitory  attention  of 
politicians,  since  the  force  of  public  sentiment  soon  drove 
them  from  association  with  the  author  of  the  Age  of  Reason. 
None  cared  to  share  the  irretrievable  verdict  uttered  against 
him,  except  a  few  free-thinking  friends,  M'ho  had  little  to  risk. 
New  York  became  his  residence,  and  the  city^  with  its  excite- 
ment,  was  preferable  to  the  solitude  of  the  New  Rochelle 
farm.     His  old  age  was  one  of  bitter  miserv;  and  the  seven 
years  between  his  return  to  America  and  his  return  to  the 
dust  exhibits  a  descending  scale  of  deep  degradation. 

"In  the  city,"  says  one  who  wrote  of  him,  "he  moved  his 
quarters  from  one  low  boarding-house  to  another,  and  o-enc- 
rally  managed  to  quarrel  with  the  blacksmiths,  bakers,  and 
butchers,  his  landlords."    His  chief  employment,  at  this  time, 

*  Matthew,  21-44. 


108  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

was  in  writing  for  the  public  journals,  and  in  personal  attack 
his  pen  had  lost  none  of  its  early  gall.  Thus,  even  before 
death  closed  his  wretched  career,  it  might  have  been  cited, 
above  all  others  of  his  day,  as  one 

"      *  *  *    Who  grovels,  self-debarred 
From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 
Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope ; 
Yea,  strives  for  others  to  bedim 
That  glorious  hght,  too  pure  for  him."  * 

Paine's  last  hours  have  been  a  matter  of  controversy.  It 
has  been  asserted  by  some  that  he  expired  amid  agonies  of 
remorse,  but  it  is  possible  that,  as  in  the  case  of  Hume, 
a  frame  of  mind,  hardened  by  a  life  of  sin,  remained  im- 
blenched  until  the  last. 

The  latter  days  of  the  author  of  the  Age  of  Reason  were 
an  impressive  commentary  on  his  doctrines.  Contemning 
Christianity,  he  had  vaunted  "an  imitation  of  God's  moral 
character,  or  the  practice  of  what  are  called  the  moral  virtues," 
and  on  this,  to  still  quote  his  own  words,  he  "  rested  his  hopes 
for  happiness  hereafter."  How  striking  the  contrast  between 
this  shameless  boast  and  that  career  in  which  these  virtues 
were  so  persistently  ignored. 

Thomas  Paine  was  the  founder  of  the  American  school  of 
Infidelity,  and  to  the  American  people  he  formally  presented 
his  Age  of  Reason.  It  was  upon  American  soil,  no  doubt, 
that  he  hoped  to  initiate  that  revolution  which  should  leave 
the  world  without  a  Bible  or  a  Saviour.  The  school  thus  es- 
tablished differed  from  all  others — like  its  founder,  it  was 
coarse,  blatant,  and  vituperative.  Hume's  vicious  teachings 
smell  of  the  lamp,  and  have  an  air  of  logic;  Gibbon,  D'Hol- 

*  "^Vordsworth. 


PAINE'S  FOLLOWERS. 


109 


bach,  and  the  Encyclopfedists  concealed  their  hatred  of 
Christianity  in  the  guise  of  elevated  thought;  malignant  as 
were  their  attacks  upon  our  faith,  it  does  not  impair  our 
appreciation  of  their  genius.  But  the  American  school  exhi- 
bited its  theories  stripped  of  all  adventitious  garb.  The 
seductive  air  of  philosophy  vanished  under  its  forming  hand, 
until  the  hideous  phantom  stood  revealed  in  its  true  colors. 
It  disdained  alliance  with  learning,  with  manners,  and  even 
with  the  decencies  of  life.  It  sought  not  its  proselytes  in  the 
alcove,  in  the  study,  or  in  the  walks  of  science.  It  spewed 
itself  in  kennels  and  gutters — it  was  ventilated  in  the  teem- 
ino-  abodes  of  vice— it  recruited  in  pot-houses  and  club-rooms, 
whose  reeking  walls  reechoed  obscene  blasphemy,  while 
priestcraft  and  scripture  were  cursed,  amid  the  clink  of  cans, 
and  the  fumes  of  pipe  and  gin-bottle. 

This  wretched  class,  diminished  though  it  be,  is  far  from 
being  extinct;  and  in  some  of  our  larger  cities  each  sabbath 
witnesses  its  cheerless  gatherings  and  discussions — while  the 
birthday  of  its  apostle,  "like  Thammuz,  yearly  wounded," 
repeats  its  stereotyped  tirades,  and  his  memory  is  thrust 
upon  the  world,  like  some  cursed  thing,  which  writhes  but 
cannot  die.  These  gatherings  exhale  the  foul  effluvia  of  dis- 
content, debauchery,  and  ferocious  radicalism  which  marked 
their  master  spirit,  and  society  may  expect  from  them  its 
deepest  stab. 

The  infamous  doctrines  of  Thomas  Paine  are  so  clearly 
illustrated  by  his  latter  years,  tliat  we  cannot  doubt  he  was 
spared  the  tribunal  and  the  axe  for  this  very  end.  At  the 
distance  of  more  than  half  a  century,  the  finger  of  retrospect- 
ive scorn  is  fixed  on  one  form  of  cumulative  horror,  and  we 
seem  to  hear  the  cry, "  Behold !  behold !"    We  turn  and  gaze, 


1[0  THE  REVOLUTIONIST. 

and  shudder  as  we  gaze,  for  the  would-be  destroyer  of  Christ- 
ianity is  before  us.  Ilis  head  is  grey,  but  those  are  grey 
hairs  of  shame;  his  form  is  bent,  but  it  is  not  with  the  dig 
nity  of  age — the  lips,  in  their  last  utterances,  still  scatter 
blasphemy;  and  as  the  wretch  totters  to  his  hopeless  grave 
the  Faith  which  he  labored  to  destroy  pervades  the  land  with 
renewed  power.*  Thus  dying,  like  the  apostate  Julian,  in 
irretrievable  defeat,  he  might,  like  him,  have  exclaimed/'  Thou 
hast  conquered,  0  Galilean!" 

We  turn  away  from  this  revolting  spectacle,  but  again  we 
seem  to  hear  the  cry,  "Behold!  behold!"  We  cannot  but 
obey,  and  gazing  once  more,  recognize  the  lesson,  and  wonder 
at  the  justice  of  his  doom.  Plenceforth  let  the  chief  reviler 
of  the  Gospel  stand  thus  in  perpetual  pillory,  an  example  of 
un-gospelized  humanity,  or,  rather,  like  the  glare  of  some 
midnight  beacon,  let  him  throw  a  ghastly  warning  upon  the 
future  of  his  race. 

Upon  a  calm  review,  we  are  convinced  that  America  owes 
nothing  to  Thomas  Paine.  The  claims  once  urged  by  the 
author  of  "Common  Sense"  are  cancelled  by  the  poisoned 
pages  which  flowed  from  the  same  pen.  As  one  shrinks  from 
the  friendship  which  only  conceals  the  dagger,  so  America 
recoils  from  alliance  with  the  insidious  pamphleteer  of  her 
revolutionary  days.  Far  better  had  it  been  for  her  to  have 
remained  a  colony,  in  possession  of  the  holy  faith  of  her 
founders,  than  to  receive  an  independence  thus  marred  and 
despoiled.     Indeed,   so   far   from  expressing  gratitude,  our 

*  Paine  died  in  1809;  in  1810  the  American  Board  of  Commissioners 
for  Foreign  Missions  was  formed;  in  1816  the  American  Bible  Society ; 
in  1817  tlie  Colonization  Society:  and  since  the  year  of  his  death  Christ- 
ianity has  exhibited  an  annual  and  stately  increase. 


THE  LESSON  OF  HIS  LIFE. 


Ill 


country  now  only  beholds  in  Paine  the  Cataline,  whose  secret 
assaults  her  religion  has  escaped;  and  she  may  measure  her 
once-threatened  danger  by  an  estimate  of  that  religion,  as  the 
source  and  security  of  liberty. 

Having  thus  marked  the  contrast  between  the  theories  of 
Infidel  revolutionists  and  the  conserving  power  of  national 
piety,  we  turn  from  the  atheistical  abstraction  of  the  former 
to  read,  with  renewed  profit,  the  lesson  of  the  Christian  phi- 
losopher:* "Human  happiness  has  no  security  but  free- 
dom  FREEDOM  NONE  BUT  VIRTUE VIRTUE  NONE  BUT  KNOW- 
LEDGE ;  AND  NEITHER  FREEDOM,  NOR  VIRTUE,  NOR  KNOWLEDGE, 
HAVE  ANT  VIGOR  EXCEPT  IN  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN 
FAITH  AND  THE  SANCTIONS  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  RELIGION." 

•  President  Dwight. 


BOOK  THIED. 


THE    POLITICIAN. 


"  'J'llK  I'L'llLlC  rATII  OF  I.II'K 
Is  KOlll,,  IHIT  YKT  ALLOW 

Ir  maki:m  tiik  noiii,1';  mtnd  mouk  noiilk  still. 

'I'lIK  WOULD's  no  NKl'TKIl.       1t  WILL  WOUND  Oil  SAVK, 

Ollll  VlllTUK  (JIIKNCMI,  Oil  INDKiN ATION  FIUE. 

You  HAY  TIIK  WOULD   WKLL  KNOWN  WILL  MAKK  A  MAN. 

TlIK  WOULD  Wr.LL  KNOWN   WILL  (ilVlO  OUU  HEARTS  TO  IIkAVKN, 

Oil  MAKK  US  DKMONS  LONG  Ilia'OUK  WK  DIK." 

Young's  Niout  Thoikihts. 


THE    POLITICIAN. 


"  ^1  EE  how  the  green-girt  cottages  shimnirr  in  the  sotting 
*^  sun!  Tie  bends  and  sinks!  Yonder  he  hurries  off,  to 
nourish  new  life.  O  that  I  had  wings  to  follow  on — to  see 
in  everlasting  evening  beams  the  stilly  world  at  my  feet — 
every  hill  on  fire — every  vale  in  repose — the  rugged  moun- 
tains, with  their  rude  defiles — the  heavens  above  me,  and 
beneath  me  the  waves !  " 

And  surely  this  were  sufficient,  Iiad  he  written  nothing 
more,  to  have  proven  its  author  a  poet;  and  over  and  over 
again  we  repeated  the  thought,  unconsciously  yielding  our- 
selves to  the  full  power  of  that  sublime  conception — the 
eternal  sunset — which  Goe'the  gave  to  the  world. 

The  summit  of  the  mountain  had  at  last  been  gained,  and 
we  were  gazing  upon  a  scene  of  overcoming  grandeur.  On 
the  north-west  lay  Amherst,  with  its  college  halls  looking  out 
from  great  masses  of  cloud  and  folinge;  nearer  by  old  ITad- 
ley  stretched  its  broad  and  quiet  streets,  lined  by  antique 
elms,  whose  arching  greenery  drooped  in  patient  watchfulness 
over  the  venerable  town.     At  another  point  of  the  compass 


11 G  THE  POLITICIAN. 

we  discerned  South  Iladley,  with  its  far-famed  Seminary — a 
monument  to  Mary  Lyon,  its  founder,  and  a  chief  feature  in 
New  England's  glory.  At  our  feet  the  Connecticut,  like  a 
thread  of  silver,  was  weaving  its  way  through  grove  and 
meadow — while  Round  11*111  sits  as  a  queen,  with  the  sinuous 
stream  at  her  feet. 

Beauties  like  these,  mellowed  by  the  hues  of  sunset,  shall 
not  soon  meet  our  eye — they  fill  the  soul  like  some  magnifi- 
cent dream;  and  yet,  turning  from  all  else,  we  soon  find  our 
attention  riveted  on  quiet  Northampton,  whose  spires  and 
mansions  peep  out  from  a  world  of  foliage.  It  is  the  storied 
abode  of  holy  memories,  and  they  now  overcome  the  heart; 
it  is  redolent  of  ancient  puritanism;  it  is  the  town  of  fervent 
preachers  and  Pentecostal  effusions.  It  is  the  spot  where 
Dwight  was  born ;  where  Edwards  lived,  and  where  Brainerd 
died.  How  then  can  we  avoid  gazing  on  old  Northampton,  ob- 
livious even  of  the  other  lovely  features  in  the  vast  panorama, 
until  the  mind,  yielding  to  the  inspiration  of  the  hour,  becomes 
lost  in  reverie.  We  forget  the  deepening  twilight,  and  ut  last, 
as  we  are  buried  in  the  solemn  shadows,  the  wheels  of  time 
seem  to  have  reversed  their  course.  Indeed,  the  past  has 
now  began  to  renew  its  quaint  existence:  the  trim  cottage 
gives  way  to  the  rude,  weather-beaten  home  of  the  pioneer, 
and  the  stalwart  yeoman  of  a  by-gone  generation,  homespun 
and  uncoutli  in  apparel,  but  with  earnest  and  commanding 
mien,  passes  before  us. 

A  whole  century  is  at  last  restored.  These  humble 
dwellings  invite  our  approach.  It  is  evening;  and  as  we 
quietly  enter,  we  find  the  household  gathered  about  the 
spacious  hearth,  by  Mhose  flickering  blaze  some  one  is 
reading  the  family  Bible.     A  few  volumes  are  seen  on  the 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  SINCE.  1-1-7 

shelf,  or  table,  but  they  are  mainly  of  a  religious  character, 
and  give  proof  of  incessant  perusal.  Religion  indeed  is  the 
common  theme,  for  the  sermon  having  been  carefully  heard 
is  the  subject  of  discussion  during  the  week,  and  its  doctrines, 
warnings,  and  reproofs  are  the  pabulum  of  each  household;/ 
indeed,  as  there  are  no  journals,  editors,  or  reformers  to  do 
the  public  thinking,  the  pulpit  holds  undisputed  sway.  The 
people  travel  but  little — a  journey  to  Boston  is  the  event  of 
a  lifetime — even  the  intercourse  with  neighboring  towns  is 
limited,  while  Albany  and  New  York  are  little  known,  ex- 
cept by  report. 

•Tar  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  even  tenor  of  their  way." 

Such  were  the  fathers  of  the  American  Republic,  who  laid 
its  foundation  in  patriotism,  born  of  piety.  Earnest,  patient, 
stout-hearted  men  they  were,  who  put  on  the  whole  armor  of 
God,  not  for  occasional  tilts,  but  for  daily  conflicts.  Like  the 
granite  which  underlies  New  England,  these  men,  hewn  out 
of  rock,  still  buttress  the  common  weal  by  example,  memory 
and  prayer. 

Among  the  rude  dwellings  which  meet  our  eye  while  thus 
gazing  in  reverie  on  old  Northampton,  there  is  none  so  inter- 
esting as  the  parsonage;  for  here,  sitting  by  his  table,  piled  and 
strewn  with  books  and  manuscripts,  one  may  behold  the 
chief-student  and  philosopher  of  his  age.  He  is  pale  and 
worn  with  thought,  and  as  he  rises  to  pace  the  floor  his  tall 
form  seems  still  more  attenuated  by  the  intensity  of  the  inner 
life.  One  need  not  fear  to  disturb  him,  for  it  is  evident  just 
now  that  he  is  absorbed  by  some  mighty  theme  and  is  unco»- 


118  THE  POLITICIAN. 

scious  of  all  but  its  solemn  questions;  and  thougli  for  a  time 
overawed  by  his  presence,  we  may  still  look  with  calm  interest 
upon  the  reverend  form  of  Jonathan  Edwards.  In  the  lower 
apartment,  for  we  will  descend  from  the  study,  we  shall 
meet  Sarah,  the  faithful  and  accomplished  helpmeet,  and  the 
ardent  and  devoted  saint,  whom  her  husband  has  cited  as  the 
holiest  and  most  exalted  of  believers.  Surrounding  this  illus- 
trious woman,  and  aiding  her  in  her  domestic  duties,  is  her 
lovely  group  of  daughters — Esther,  Mary,  Jerusha,  Sarah,  in 
whom  are  perpetuated  the  mother's  gifts  and  graces,  and  who 
follow  her  arduous  path  in  that  daily  walk  which  leads  to  the 
better  land.  Ah,  who  shall  dare  to  even  think  that  from  one 
of  this  pure  and  primitive  circle  will  spring  the  chief  sinner 
of  his  day?  Ah,  who  shall  forecast  such  a  destiny  for  bloom- 
ing, dark-eyed  Esther — to  bear  and  nurture  one  who  shall 
be  heir  of  misery  and  crime?  Of  these  cherished  daughters 
Jerusha  shall  be  first  to  go  hence,  and  her  grave  shall  for 
many  a  year  be  redolent  of  the  sweet  memory  of  the  early 
dead.  Mary  shall  give  the  world  one  who  will  be  worthy  of 
her  sire — and  in  the  name  and  character  of  a  Dwight  he  shall 
renew  his  piety  and  power.  But  thou,  Esther — eldest  and 
most  gifted  of  all — to  thee  it  is  reserved  to  be  the  mother  of 
him  from  whose  bad  fame  all  thy  house  might  recoil ! 

While  such  thoughts  are  as  yet  unborn,  we  gaze  with  silent 
reverence  upon  this  blessed  household,  for  here  intellect  is 
hallowed  by  piety,  and  childhood  mingles  its  merry  inno- 
cence with  the  exhalements  of  prayer.  But  now  a  new  name 
is  to  be  entwined  in  its  history,  and  Aaron  Burr,  Presbyterian 
pastor  of  far  distant  Newark,  has  been  proven  worthy  of 
Esther's  love.  Their  union,  however,  will  be  delayed  until 
Jonathan  Edwards,  the  expelled  of  Noi^liampton,  shall  have 


THE  YEAR  OF  MORTALITY.  119 

found  a  new  home  at  Stockbridge,  when  mother  and  daughter, 
waiving  all  form,  shall  journey  to  New  York  and  meet  the 
bridegroom  in  the  long  expected  ceremony. 

In  1752  the  happy  couple  establish  a  new  fireside,  and 
h  're  Esther  revives  the  scenes  of  her  early  days.  Like  the 
good  old  home  in  Northampton,  it  is  the  abode  of  peace — where 
faith  daily  overcomes  the  world.  And  soon  two  sweet 
children  fill  Esther's  heart  with  happiness,  and  little  Sarah 
has  just  learned  to  prattle  a  few  broken  words  to  her  mamma 
as  she  rocks  the  cradle  in  which  the  tiny  Aaron  sleeps.  Yes, 
he  is  awake  now,  and  papa  must  come  in  from  the  study  to 
hear  the  mother's  flood  of  baby  talk — to  gaze  in  those  lus- 
trous eyes,  and  to  feed  upon  the  hopes  which  that  beauteous 
babe  has  inspired. 

******  *  *  * 

But  alas!  all  these  things  are  but  as  a  dream.  Baby  and 
his  sister  are  orphans  now.  Father  was  exhausted  and  over- 
done by  his  sermon  at  Governor  Belcher's  funeral,  and  the 
fever  soon  proves  fatal.  He  is  only  forty-two,  and  the  infant 
college  pleads  in  vain  as  it  beholds  one  who  is  not  only  its 
president  but  its  founder  and  nursing  father,  smitten  in  his 
prime.  In  vain,  too,  Esther  watches  and  ministers  beside  his 
Avasting  form — the  last  conflict  is  rapidly  but  serenely  finished, 
and  a?  chief  mourner  she  follows  her  beloved  one  to  his  place 
of  rest.  Six  months  are  passed;  another  fills  the  presidential 
'seat,  and  Esther's  fiither,  the  good  and  the  great,  accepts  the 
work  which  once  her  husband  honored.  But,  alas!  he  has 
onlv  come  to  die!  In  six  months  the  chair  is  acrain  vacant, 
and  all  that  is  mortal  of  Jonathan  Edwards  rests  by  the  side 
of  Esther's  husband. 

Can  we  avoid  a  shudder  as  we  behold  the  shadows  still 


120  THE  POLITICIAN. 

deepening  in  gloom?  But  sixteen  days  are  passed  since  the 
death  of  the  last  president,  when  another  funereal  procession 
sweeps  in  sombre  array  to  the  same  place  of  burial.  And 
now  Esther  herself  finds  rest  by  the  side  of  a  father  and  a 
husband — leaving  her  little  orphans  to  the  care  of  God. 

After  a  lapse  of  six  months  a  fresh  mound  appears  in  the 
same  plat,  to  mark  the  grave  of  Sarah,  the  widow  and 
smitten  mother.  She  has  come  from  Stockbridge  to  weep 
over  the  turf  beneath  which  a  son,  a  daughter,  and  a  husband 
are  sleeping;  but  the  bitter  tears  of  bereavement  and  desola- 
tion are  thus  wiped  away  by  the  hand  of  death. 

O,  precious  plat  in  Princeton  burial-ground — rich  with  the 
dust  of  saints,  who  from  these  crumbled  monuments  shall 
rise  in  glory !  Yet  one  moulders  there  of  whom  we  dare 
not  breathe  such  hope.  It  is  thee — poor  orphan!  left  behind 
in  that  busy  time  of  death — left  behind,  to  fill  up  a  harrow- 
ing destiny,  and  only  to  return  when  the  cherub  face  of 
infimcy  shall  put  on  the  sere  lineaments  of  four  score — left 
behind,  to  follow  the  bent  of  youthful  passions — to  wrestle 
with  temptation  in  its  most  feai'ful  shapes — left  in  the  battle, 
not  to  conquer,  but  to  perish! 

Ah,  poor  babe!  may  we  not  exclaim — would  God  thou 
hadst  early  closed  those  lustrous  eyes,  and  shared  thy  mother's 
sleep,  still  resting  on  her  breast!  But  a  higher  wisdom 
decrees  that  this  must  not  be.  Therefore  we  gaze  with  deep- 
ening sympathy  on  one  who  is  developing  into  restless  and 
disobedient  boyhood,  and  proving  as  wayward  as  he  is  beau- 
tiful. A  lithe  and  active  form — a  passing  grace  of  mannci-s, 
and  a  mind  rapid  almost  to  precocity,  may  offer  promise; 
but  that  restive  and  indomitable  will  bodes  no  good.  At  ton 
he  is  a  recaptured  runaway;  at  thirteen  he  is  a  college  junior; 


CONVICTION  OF  SIN.  121 

and  at  sixteen  he  bids  the  farewell  of  a  graduate  to  his  Alma 
Mater. 

About  these  days  there  is  a  strange  thing  to  be  seen  by 
that  circle  of  friends  and  relatives  who  are  anxiously  watch- 
ing his  opening  career.    Young  Aaron  Burr  has  taken  a  jour- 
ney into  Connecticut,  to  visit  one  widely  known  as  "  Father 
Bellamy."     He  is  not  seventeen,  and  the  wonder  is  what  can 
lead  so  wild  a  youth  to  the  dull  scenes  of  Bellamy's  parson- 
age.    The  reply  must  come  fi-om  that  bosom  now  heaving 
with   solemn   thought  and  emotion.     Incredible  as  it  may 
appear,  that  bosom  is  no  longer  the  abode  of  levity.     A  new 
sense  has  possessed  it.     Aaron  Burr  has  suddenly  been  awak- 
ened to  the  value  of  the  soul — to  a  view  of  its  guilt,  and  its 
need  of  atonement.     He  feels  the  claims  of  his  higher  nature, 
which  will  not  feed  on  the  pleasures  of  sin.     In  other  words, 
the  Holy  Spirit,  which  convinces  of  sin,  is  striving  with  the 
youth,  and  not  only  has  forced  him  to  abandon  his  evil  ways, 
but  has  led  him  to  the  counsels  of  Bellamy,  the  early  friend 
of  his  father.     The  parson  welcomes  the  enquirer,  who  abides 
in  his  family  full  eight  months,  in  order  to  satisfy  himself 
concerning   the   momentous  question   of  personal   religion. 
During  this  time  a  mighty  conflict  agitates  the  soul  of  the 
youth;  angels  might  look  on  and  weep,  for  at  last  the  battle 
is  lost.    It  is  said  in  Holy  Writ  that  "when  the  unclean  spirit 
is  gone  out  of  a  man,  he  walketh  through  dry  places  seeking 
rest,  and  findeth  none.    Then  he  saith, '  I  will  return  unto  mine 
house,  from  whence  I  came  out;'  and  when  he  is  come  he 
findeth  it  empty,  swept  and  garnished.     Then  goeth  he  and 
taketh  with  himself  seven  other  spirits,  more  wicked  than 
himself,  and  they  enter  in  and  dwell  there;  and  the  hist  state 


122  THE  POLITICIAN. 

of  that  man  is  worse  than  the  first."*  Such,  we  have  reason 
to  believe,  was  the  case  of  the  once  anxious  enquirer,  whcu 
he  left  Father  Bellamy's.  The  expectations  of  his  friends  that 
he  would  adopt  the  sacred  profession  of  his  ancestors  were 
disappointed;  and,  what  was  still  worse,  their  hopes  of  his 
personal  piety  were  blasted  when  they  beheld  him  turn  his 
back  upon  the  pastor  and  his  teachings.  We  believe  it  to 
have  been  a  farewell  to  Christianity;  and  if  it  ever  after  in- 
fluenced him  it  must  have  only  been  in  that  indirect  way  in 
which  it  acts  upon  the  minds  of  the  depraved  without  their 
consciousness. 

The  attack  of  Infidelity  upon  the  youthful  mind  is  of  the 
most  insidious  nature.  It  finds  seci'et  allies  in  the  corrup- 
tions of  the  heart — it  fraternises  with  the  baser  passions, 
offering  promise  of  abundant  gratification.  Entrenched  in 
all  that  is  unholy  in  man,  it  first  exhibits  the  nascent  doubt. 
The  soul  is  startled — is  it  possible,  then,  that  that  which  has 
so  often  frowned  upon  its  pleasures  may  be  a  delusion? 
Once  more  is  heard  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  whispering, 
'■^thou  shall  not  die!"  And  can  it  be  possible  that  this  hate- 
ful sclieme  may  be  a  mere  figment?  Ah,  if  tliis  were  but 
the  case,  how  liappy  were  our  state!  If  one  could  but  pro\e 
that  these  stern  dogmas  were  indeed  but  a  remnant  of  anti- 
quated superstition,  which  science  and  reason  annihilate,  how 
would  the  soul  expand  in  joyful  emancipation!  Then  with 
emboldened  tone  the  misled  one  exclaims,  "Prove  this  to 
me,  ye  men  of  argument,  and  I  will  be  your  disciple!" 

Here  is  Hume — full  of  miohtv  reasoning — indeed,  in  liis 
hands  Christianity  not  only  becomes  a  bubble,  but  even  sui- 

*  Matllu'w,  12-13. 


CONFIRMED  IN  UNBELIEF.  123 

cifle  tal:es  the  aspect  of  a  virtue;  and  when  the  round  of 
pleasure  shall  be  faiished  it  offers  a  friendly  escape  from  the 
bitterness  which  follows.  Or  here  is  Goethe,  radiant  with 
the  scintillations  of  far  more  splendid  genius,  and  offering  a 
dazzling  contrast  to  the  blank  and  dreary  theories  of  the 
Deist.  The  bewildered  soul  bows  before  the  colossal  Pan- 
theist, for 

"WTiat  if  pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt, 
Yet  still  he  stalked,  a  self-created  God." 

And  the  error  whic\i  underlies  the  foul  idolatry  of  the  Hin- 
doo is  sublimated  until  it  permeates  the  highest  fields  of 
thought.  "Henceforth,"  exclaims  the  lost  one,  "I  only  bow 
to  Nature  deified — Deity,  of  which  I  too  am  a  prj't."'"  How 
tluit  thought  pampers  the  vanity  of  man!  Wliy  should  such 
an  one  be  ruled  by  apothegms  from  ancient  scripture?  "NYeak- 
liii'js  may  thus  cringe,  but  'tis  his  to  soar,  upborne  by  Na- 
ture's lofty  instinct,  to  himself  indeed  a  God.  Thus  he  is 
entangled  in  his  own  conceit,  and  calls  it  philosophy.  Unbe- 
lief too  enchants  the  eye  with  an  aImo3t  boundless  vista  of 
.  pleasures — barriers,  once  impregnable,  now  fall  as  by  a  spell, 
and   the  field  of  sensual  delight  expands  before  unfettered 

*  Pantheism,  or  the  belief  that  God  is  everything,  is  d;cply  rooted  in 
the  minds  of  the  masses.  The  soul,  they  believe,  is  but  a  portion  of  the 
Divine  Spirit,  united  to  a  portion  of  matter.  "  Crahm,"  says  one  of  the 
Purannas,  "  is  the  potter  by  whom  the  vase  is  formed ;  he  is  the  clay  of 
which  it  is  made.  Everything  proceeds  from  him,  without  waste  or  I'.imi- 
nution — everything  merges  in  him  again,  as  rivers  mingle  with  the  ocean." 
"I  am  God,"  is  the  constant  assertion  of  those  with  whom  the  missionary 
in  India  has  to  deal." — (Life  in  India.)  Goithe  ivould  hare  been  asliaincd 
to  acknowledge  ihe  deynnhd  Hindoo  arnoitg  his  discijjlcs.  Yd  what  is  (he 
ilijj'crcncc  between  his  Funthcvsm  and  tlulmf 


124-  THE  rOLITICIAN. 

appetite.     With  no  law  but  the  love  of  pleasure  the  career  is 
begun. 

"  Oh,  foolishness  of  men,  that  lend  their  ears 
To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur, 
And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic  tub, 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  abstinence. 
Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth. 
With  such  a  full  and  unwithdrawing  hand, 
Covering  the  world  with  odorous  fruits  and  floclcs, 
Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable, 
But  all  to  please  and  sate  the  curious  taste  ? 
*         *         *         If  all  the  world  ' 
Should  in  a  pet  of  temperance  feed  on  pulse."  * 

We  shall  not  attempt  a  picture  of  the  conflict  between  the 
soul  and  its  tempter.  INIilton  has  pourtrayed  thrilling  resist- 
ance and  escape  in  his  Comus,  but  Retzsch's  noble  outline  of 
the  Game  of  Human  Life  presents  a  saddening  contrast.  The 
triumphs  of  virtue  are  seldom  found  except  on  the  page  of 
iietion,  while  the  sketch  of  the  artist  illustrates  the  history  of 
many  a  wretched  generation.  And  to  this  very  hour  we  may 
behold  the  Circoan  cup  enchanting  its  youthful  victims,  till  all 
the  lessons  of  early  childhood  shall  be  lost  in  the  delirium  of 
pleasure,  only  to  return  and  reproach  the  last  hours  of  a 
wasted  life. 

We  believe  that  it  was  thus  with  the  once  anxious  enquirer 
after  truth.  He  left  Father  Bellamy's  with  a  careless  heart, 
whose  only  subsequent  pursuit  was  pleasure;  while  unbelief 
renewed  itself  in  tenfold  power,  and  the  passions,  no  longer 
bridled,  henceforth  held  an  unbroken  sway.  At  llie  age  of 
nineteen  he  has  enlisted  in  the  army  of  the  Revolution,  and 

*  MilKm. 


]TZSCH 


f  HUMAN   L. 

Vide  ApT"n"i-n 


STORMING  OF  QUEBEC.  125 

we  follow  the  rising  volunteer  as  he  marches  with  a  gallant 
but  unfortunate  band.  Led  by  ]\Iontgomery,  and  stimulated 
by  the  desperado  Arnold,  it  exhibits  prodigies  of  valor  and 
endurance — it  forces  a  way  through  the  morasses  and  over  the 
mountains  of  an  unbroken  wilderness,  until  Montreal  yields 
to  its  artillery,  and  Quebec  trembles  at  its  approach.  But 
here  defeat  and  disaster  are  to  be  encountered,  and  Montso- 
mory  is  to  die  in  vain  before  that  fortress,  whose  capture  had 
immortalized  the  expiring  Wolfe.  The  morning  of  the  31st 
December  is  fixed  upon  for  the  storm.  The  forlorn  hope 
advances,  under  the  command  of  Aaron  Burr,  whose  cool  and 
intrepid  valor  is  set  off  by  the  freshness  of  youth.  But  the 
attack  utterly  fails — and  the  discharge  of  a  single  cannon 
prostrates  Montgomery  with  mortal  wound,  while  the  entire 
front  is  slain,  save  two.  One  of  these  is  young  Burr,  who 
retreats  bearing  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  general  upon  his 
shoulders. 

We  next  behold  him  in  New  York,  on  his  return  from  the 
unfortunate  campaign.  The  young  and  elegant  officer  now 
enjoys  the  fresh  laurels  of  arms.  He  is  the  hero  of  the 
northern  campaign,  courted,  caressed  and  admired — all  won- 
der at  his  brilliance — the  form  is  graceful  as  an  Apollo — the 
voice  awakens  emotions  in  the  listening  groups  of  the  saloon, 
and  the  martial  fire  of  the  black  and  piercing  eye  melts  into 
a  subdued  lustre  before  the  beauties  of  the  metropolis.  Rare 
gifts  centre  upon  one  who  will  ply  them  for  the  worst.*     The 

*  "  I  mention  but  one  other  ease — that  of  the  seducer.  Playing  upon 
the  most  sacred  affections,  he  betrays  innocence.  How?  By  its  noblest 
faculties;  by  its  trust;  by  its  unsuspecting  faith;  by  its  tender  love;  by 
its  honor.  The  victim,  often  and  often,  is  not  the  accomplice  so  much  as 
the  sufferer,  betrayed  by  an  exorcism  which  bewitched  her  noblest  affec- 
tions to  become  the  suicides  of  her  virtue !     The  betrayer,  for  the  most 


126  THE  POLITICIAN. 

ambition  of  intriijuc  is  paramount  even  to  the  ambition  of 
arms,  and  tliere  is  no  name  so  honored,  and  no  friendship  so 

intense  selfishness,  without  one  noble  motive,  without  one  pretense  of 
honor — bj'  Ues ;  by  a  devilisli  jugglery  of  fraud ;  by  blinding  the  eye,  con- 
fusing the  conscience,  misleading  the  judgment,  and  instilling  the  dew  of 
sorcery  upon  every  flower  of  sweet  aftection — deliberately,  heartlessly 
damns  the  confiding  victim !  Is  there  one  shade  of  good  intention,  one 
glimmering  trace  of  light  ?  Not  one.  There  was  not  the  most  shadowy, 
tremulous  intention  of  honor.  It  was  a  sheer,  premeditated,  wholesale 
ruin,  from  beginning  to  end.  The  accursed  sorcerer  opens  the  door  of 
the  world,  to  push  her  forth.  She  looks  out  all  shuddering;  for  there  is 
shame,  and  sharp-tootlicd  hatred,  and  chattering  slander,  and  malignant 
envy,  and  triumphing  jealousy,  and  old  revenge — these  are  seen  rising 
before  her,  clouds  full  of  fire  that  burns,  but  will  not  kill.  And  there  is 
for  her,  want  and  poverty,  and  gaunt  famine.  There  is  the  world  spread 
out ;  she  sees  father  and  mother  heartlessly  abandoning  her,  a  brother's 
shame,  a  sister's  anguish.  It  is  a  vision  of  desolation ;  a  plundered  home, 
an  altar  where  honor,  and  purity,  and  peace  have  been  insidiously  sacri- 
ficed to  the  foul  Moloch.  All  is  cheerless  to  the  eye,  and  her  ear  catches 
the  sounds  of  sighing  and  mourning,  wails  and  laments ;  and  far  down,  at 
the  horizon  of  the  vision,  the  murky  cloud  for  a  moment  lifts,  and  slie 
sees  the  very  bottom  of  infamy,  the  ghastliness  of  death,  the  last  spasm 
of  horrible  departure — the  awful  thunder  of  final  doom.  All  this  the 
trembling,  betrayed  creature  sees  through  the  open  door  of  the  future; 
and  with  a  voice  that  might  move  the  dead,  she  turns  and  clasps  his 
knees,  in  awful  agony:  'Leave  me  not!  Oh!  sjiare  me — save  me — cast 
me  not  away ! '  Poor  thing,  she  is  dealing  with  a  demon  !  Spare  her? — 
Save  her?  The  polished  scoundrel  betrayed  her  to  abandon  her,  and 
walks  the  street  to  boast  his  hellish  deed !  It  becomes  him  as  a  reputa- 
tion !  Surely  society  will  crush  him — they  will  smite  the  wolf  and  seek 
out  the  bleeding  lamb.  Oh,  my  soul,  believe  it  not!  What  sight  is  that? 
The  drooping  victim  is  worse  used  than  the  infernal  destroyer!  lie  is 
fondled,  courted,  passed  from  honor  to  honor  I — and  she  is  crushed  and 
mangled  under  the  infuriate  tramp  of  public  indignation !  On  her  man- 
gled corpse  they  stand  to  put  the  laurels  on  her  murderer's  brow!  When 
I  see  such  things  as  these,  I  thank  God  that  there  is  a  judgment,  and  that 
there  is  a  hell ! — //.  W.  Betcher. 


NEW  YORK  A  HALF  CEXTURY  AGO.  127 

tender  as  to  redeem  the  sacrifice  demanded  by  the  sensualist. 
It  will  be  sufficient  infamy  to  add  that  this  was  his  boast 
through  life. 

But  at  last  the  war  terminates — seven  years  of  conflict  have 
won  an  honorable  peace,  and  the  citizen  soldiery  have  dis- 
banded. Aaron  Burr,  now  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  is  an 
established  attorney  in  New  York,  and  an  aspirant  for  public 
honors.  New  York,  as  a  commercial  city,  was  then  in  its 
infancy.  But  little  business  was  done  above  Wall  street, 
and  after  a  long  and  quiet  jaunt  up  Broadway,  then  an  almost 
rural  avenue,  one  would  arrive  at  the  miry  purlieus  of  Canal 
street.  Here  the  eye  might  rove  over  open  commons,  while 
little  homesteads  alternate  with  spacious  country  seats  and 
well-ordered  farms.  Looking  from  this  point  to  the  north- 
west, there  might  have  been  descried  a  tasteful  mansion  half 
hidden  in  extensive  shrubbery.  This  was  Richmond  Hill — a 
villa  which  preserved  to  a  later  generation  the  name  of  its 
accomplished  possessor.  Here  he  dwelt  for  ten  years,  and 
here  could  have  been  seen  many  a  circle  of  wit  and  beauty, 
fascinated  by  his  courtly  elegance,. while  its  hushed  apart- 
ments often  listened  to  anxious  conclaves,  whose  schemes  cen- 
tered on  the  astute  attorney. 

********* 

The  dawn  of  the  nineteenth  century  opened  upon  one  of 
the  most  thrilling  episodes  in  our  country's  political  annals. 
The  Federal  party  had  suffered  a  recent  and  irreparable  loss 
in  the  death  of  Washington.  It  was  still,  however,  earnestly 
sustained  by  President  Adams  and  a  powerful  organization. 
But  the  day  of  its  overthrow  was  at  hand. 

There  are  still  living  many  political  veterans  who  in  octo- 
genarian retrospect  may  recall  their  entrance  of  the  field,  and 


128  THE  POLITICIAN. 

the  extreme  tlifFieulty  which  embarrassed  its  manceuvres.  A 
journey  either  to  Boston  or  Philadelphia  required  three  tedi- 
ous days,  while  a  voyage  to  Albany  equalled  in  length  a 
modern  trip  across  the  Atlantic.  No  telegraph  flashed  from 
the  seaport  to  the  Missouri — no  railcar  sped  across  the 
continent,  affording  means  of  rapid  communication,  and 
abating  the  fierceness  of  political  excitement.  This  may 
be  a  reason  for  the  extreme  bitterness  with  which  the 
publicists  and  partizans  of  that  day  assailed  their  opponents. 
The  press  teemed  with  squibs,  lampoons  and  diatribes  of  the 
lowest  character,  and  as  personal  hate  was  a  ready  path  to  the 
duel,  to  be  a  good  shot  was  one  of  the  necessities  of  public  life. 
Among  the  distinguished  men  who  at  that  epoch  honored 
New  York  city,  and  whose  names  have  been  conserved  in 
grateful  remembrance,  may  be  mentioned  George  Clinton; 
John  Jay,  Daniel  D.  Tompkins,  Governor  Yates,  Marinus 
Willett  and  De  Witt  Clinton.  Among  the  journalists,  Thomp- 
son, Cheetham,  and  Peter  Irving  stood  prominent;  while 
Paine,  fresh  from  the  hot  scenes  of  the  French  revolution, 
relieved  the  tedium  of  a  miserable  old  age  by  penning 
invective.  At  this  time  a  youth  of  some  twenty  years  might 
have  been  daily  seen  in  Wall  street,  in  whose  countenance  min- 
gled the  pensive,  the  ardent,  and  the  generous  in  felicitous 
union.  Just  attempting  the  study  of  the  law,  he  was  enlivening 
its  dry  details  with  the  zest  of  politics.  American  literature 
may  rejoice  that  his  genius  was  reclaimed  from  either  of  these 
pursuits,  and  that  instead  of  a  plodding  attorney  or  a  weary 
politician,  he  has  developed  in  the  fullness  of  national  author- 
ship. No  success  in  any  other  field  could  have  compensated 
for  the  loss  of  the  great  historian  of  the  liberator  of  America. 
Mr.  Irving's  predilections,  at  tills  early  hour,  were  opposed 


THE  FAMOUS  TIE. 


129 


to  those  of  his  brother  Peter,  the  brilliant  editor,  on  whose 
journal  Burr's  expectations  largely  rested. 

The  attack  upon  the  Federalists  was  led  by  Burr  and  Jef- 
ferson. They  triumphed — and  that  noble  party  which  once 
could  boast  of  Washington  as  its  head,  lay  for  ever  prostrate. 
But  a  fiercer  struggle  yet  awaited  the  victorious  leaders. 
This  was  for  the  presidency,  toward  which  each  had  for  years 
turned  a  hopeful  eye,  and  which,  like  the  fruit  of  Tantalus, 
was  now  within  apparent  grasp.  Now  cominenced  those 
memorable  ballotings  in  Congress  which  so  persistently  ex- 
hibited the  unchanging  "tie."  From  day  to  day  was  heard 
the  wearying  repetition,  until  exhausted  patience  and  frantic 
excitement  maddened  the  national  councils,  and  threatened 
even  the  safety  of  the  young  republic.  At  last,  after  a  strug- 
gle of  eleven  days'  duration,  and  after  thirty-six  ballotings, 
a  change  of  two  votes  decided  the  tremendous  question. 
Thomas  Jefferson  was  chosen  President.  Burr  received  the 
next  distinguished  position,  and  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
our  history,  these  exalted  offices  were  filled  by  men  of  bitter 
and  relentless  hatred,  and  only  harmoknious  in  their  rejection 

of  Christianity. 

********* 

Our  next  scene  is  one  of  bloodshed  and  death.  Infidelity, 
uncontrolled  in  its  infiuences,  has  at  last  matured  in  the  full- 
blown man  of  the  world.  And  if  we  Avere  asked  the  meaning 
of  that  term,  we  would  define  it  as  the  reverse  of  the  Christ- 
ian, wlio  is  ruled  not  by  the  spirit  of  this  world,  but  of  that 
which  is  to  come.  A  man  of  the  world  glories  in  contempt 
for  those  things  which  a  Christian  venerates;  with  him  pity 
receives  a  sneer,  and  sympathy,  and  forgiveness,  and  virtue  are 


130  THE  POLITICIAN. 

but  empty  words.  But  what  has  been  erected  upon  the  ruins 
of  true  character?  A  throne,  whereon  sits  Selfishness,  hold- 
ing its  accursed  court,  and  ministered  to  by  Hate,  Lust, 
Jealousy  and  Revenge.  "If  thy  enemy  be  hungry,"  exclaims 
Paul,  "give  him  meat."  "If  thy  friend  offend  thee,"  ex- 
claims the  man  of  the  world,  "call  him  out,  with  sword  or 
pistol."  Measured  by  such  a  rule,  Christianity  becomes 
mockery,  and  even  the  words  of  Jesus  are  unmeaning.  Yet 
there  have  been,  and  there  are  still,  those  who  accord  to  such 
an  one  the  rank  of  "a  man  of  honor."  Let  us  examine  his 
claims  to  that  lofty  title.  To-day  he  meets  you  in  the  em- 
brace of  friendship,  and  warms  your  breast  with  smile  and 
greeting — tomorrow,  for  a  word  misspoken,  he  may  pierce 
that  breast  with  a  bullet.  To-day  he  visits  your  dwelling  and 
partakes  of  its  hospitality,  while  your  children  gambol  at  liis 
side — tomorrow,  unless  some  apology  wipe  out  the  offence  of 
what  may  be  a  conventional  blunder,  he  visits  you  through 
"a  friend,"  who  bears  the  courtly  but  murderous  message. 
As  a  man  of  corresponding  honor,  you  cannot  decline  it — 
nay,  such  an  act  were  doubly  damning  among  the  honorable; 
and  ere  a  few  suns  have  set  those  children  shall  be  orphans — 
tliat  house  shall  be  for  ever  desolate,  and  your  untimely 
corpse  shall  be  festering  in  the  grave.  Such  are  the  demands 
of  that  accursed  code  which  even  now,  in  some  portions  of 
our  land,  hokls  baleful  sway. 

Yet  one  word  with  thee,  thou  "]\Ian  of  honor!"  Dost  think 
that  that  swelling  word  will  wipe  out  the  taint  of  a  brotlu'i-'s 
blood,  or  mingle  some  "  Nepenthe"  for  remorseful  conscience, 
or  plead  for  thee  at  that  bar  wlu  re  the  slayer  shall  yet  meet 
the  slain?    Wilt  thou  \arnish  that  stern  word,  muudek?    Will 


CONSCIENCE.  131 

thy  code  of  honor  enchant  the  Furies  of  an  avenging  con- 
science, till  they  forget  to  rend  thee? 

"  The  usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain; 
He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain — 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain. 
*  And  well,'  quoth  he,  '  I  know  of  truth 

Their  pangs  must  be  extreme — 
Woe!  woe! — unutterable  woe!^ 

Who  shed  life's  sacred  stream ! 
For  why  ?     Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 

A  murder  in  a  dream. 


" '  All  night  I  lay  in  agony-^ 


In  anguish  dark  and  deep ; 
My  fevered  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  sleep. 
And  peace  went  with  thenj,  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread, 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain, 
_  That  lighted  me  to  bed, 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round. 

With  fingers  bloody  red. 

' '  Oh,  God !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me,  now  awake — 
Again !  again !  with  a  dizzy  brain,- 

The  human  life  I  take ! 
And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow — 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul — 

It  stands  liofore  me  now ! ' " 


132  THE  POLITICIAN. 

This  is  a  most  fearful  picture — but  so  far  from  being  over- 
wrought, it  fails  before  the  unutterable  reality.  Who  has 
ever  yet  found  words  for  the  deep  and  undying  agonies  (;f  a 
murderer's  conscience?  As  we  write,  instances  of  remorse 
crowd  upon  us,  and  overcome  the  mind  by  their  awful  sha- 
dows. Let  the  record  of  one  suffice  our  present  purpose. 
Dr.  Benjamin  Rush  states  that  among  the  incurables  in  a 
madhouse  he  found  one  who  had  been  a  successful  duellist, 
and  whose  ghastly  countenance  at  once  told  its  tale.  He  was 
the  victim  of  remorse,  which  devoured  him  like  troops  of 
Furies — night  and  day  alike  they  had  poured  their  vengeance 
upon  his  miserable  soul,  until  the  mind  collapsed  in  its  throes 
and  sank  into  a  delirium  of  despair.* 

Among  all  the  passions  which  consume  the  heart  there  is 
none  like  $he  indignation  arising  from  a  sense  of  injury,  and 
which,  when  aggravated,  becomes  revenge.  "When  paramount, 
the  mind  loses  sight  of  other  pursuits,  and  becomes  engrossed 
in  one  grand  object.  Other  passions  sink  in  abeyance,  for 
one  thought  now  rules  the  soul,  and  pervades  not  only  its 
waking  hours,  but  haunts  those  of  sleep.  The  eye  is  filled 
by  that  form,  above  all  others  most  hateful,  about  which  cen- 
tres only  evil ;  no  beauty  is  left  its  name  or  character,  for 
revenge  has  stripped  its  victim  of  all  that  can  mitigate  its 
demand.  And  now  it  pursues  the  unforgiving  one,  like  his 
evil  genius.  It  flits  across  the  page  he  reads;  it  steals  in 
among  hours  once  given  to  peace;  it  seems  even  to  cloud  the 
sun  at  noonday — while  its  name  grates  upon  the  ear,  and  ex- 
cites deeper  wrath.  Thus  do  feuds  and  hatred,  the  longer 
they  are  cherished,  increase  in  bitterness,  until  passing  endu- 
rance they  provoke  to  vengeance,  which,  like  the  tiger's  thirst, 

*  Rusli,  on  Tlie  Jlind. 


THE  FALLEN  ASPIRANT.  133 

can  only  be  quenched  by  blood.  In  nothing,  therefore,  is  the 
power  of  Christianity  better  shown  than  in  its  conflicts  with 
a  passion  which  subsides  only  at  the  words  of  Jesus :  "  Love 
your  enemies;  bless  them  that  curse  you;  do  good  to  them 
that  hate  you;  and  pray  for  them  that  despitefully  use  you 
and  persecute  you." 

The  steps  which  led  to  that  famous  duel,  of  which  we  are 
now  to  speak,  may  be  traced  through  several  years  of  politi- 
cal strife;  but  it  became  inevitable  from  the  hour  of  Burr's 
defeat.  Had  he  been  elected  to  the  Presidency  he  would 
never  have  fought  Hamilton;  but  from  the  moment  the  final 
ballot  was  announced,  his  name  lost  prestige.  Jefferson  exhi- 
bited his  jealousy  of  a  once  powerful  rival  by  opening  upon 
him  the  batteries  of  the  Administration;  while  the  Federalists, 
maddened  by  their  recent  defeat,  poured  their  execrations  upon 
their  chief  destroyer.  Burr's  once  enviable  position  became 
suddenly  eclipsed — the  leader  of  a  triumphant  party  awoke 
from  ambitious  dreams  to  find  himself  buffeted  by  govern- 
ment hirelings — avoided  by  all  who  sought  official  patronage, 
and  only  prominent  as  a  target  for  subsidized  journalists. 
For  this  the  Vice  Presidency  was  no  compensation;  while,  to 
make  matters  worse,  his  finances  were  in  hopeless  confusion, 
and  the  death  of  his  accomplished  wife  had  made  his  home 
desolate.  Galled  by  reverses — the  past  a  history  of  disap- 
pointment— the  future  robbed  of  its  hope,  he  seems  to  have 
turned  away,  in  despair,  from  the  Presidency — that  goal  of 
many  an  arduous  year.  Among  the  passions  of  one  thus 
soured  by  the  corrupt  atmosphere  of  politics,  and  consumed 
by  disappointed  ambition,  Revenge  must  have  claimed  mas- 
tery, and  it  could  not  but  have  demanded  sore  retaliation  ujjon 
all  who  bore  a  part  in  his  fall.     Jefferson  was  of  all  enemies 


131  THE  POLITICIAN. 

the  most  hated ;  but,  elevated  above  the  reach  of  an  antagon- 
ist, he  could  meet  all  hostile  approaches  with  contempt.  But 
there  was  another  who,  while  highly  obnoxious,  was  defended 
by  no  official  barrier — it  was  one  who  had  met  him  in  relent- 
less opposition  for  twenty  years — sparing  neither  voice  nor 
pen  in  exposure  of  intrigue,  and  who  now,  exalted  in  legal  and 
military  fame,  and  respected  even  by  his  opponents,  was  en- 
joying the  graces  of  a  lovely  family,  while  the  fullness  of 
promise  hovered  over  his  future . 

This  man  was  Alexander  Hamilton.  A  native  of  St.  Kitts, 
Hamilton  was  an  Amei'ican  by  emigration — a  republican  by 
choice.  Early  poverty,  while  it  denied  him  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, could  not  repress  the  ardor  of  high-toned  ambition,  which 
burst  the  narrow  limits  of  the  counting-house  in  whicli  lie 
served,  and  was  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  the  law.* 
Commencing  this  study  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  was  soon 
distinguislied  for  bold  opinion,  for  courage,  and  for  eloquence. 
While  yet  a  youth,  his  impassioned  oratory  gave  him  rank 
with  Otis  and  Henry,  and  he  became  an  acknowledged  leader 
of  the  patriotic  element  of  New  York.  It  is  not  our  purpose 
to  discuss  his  character  at  length — it  had  its  blemishes,  and 
yet,  while  admitting  them,  we  still  are  rapt  in  tlie  co- 
lossal splendor  of  its  redeeming  features.  Indeed,  its  rare 
combination  of  courtesy,  intellect  and  bravery,  might  have 
recalled  to  the  romantic  the  memories  of  ancient  chivalry, 

*  "  To  confess  my  weakness,  Ned,  my  ambition  is  prevalent ;  so  that  I 
contemn  the  grovelling  condition  of  a  clerk,  or  the  like,  to  whicli  my  for- 
tune condemns  me,  and  would  willingly  risk  my  life,  though  not  my 
character,  to  exalt  my  station.  *  *  *  I  mean  to  prepare  the  way  for 
futurity.  *  *  *  I  conclude  by  saying  that  I  wish  for  war." — Extnut 
from  a  letter  from  Hamillon  to  Edward  Stevens,  1*709 — cetai  15. 


HIS  SCATHING  LETTERS. 


135 


while  it  could  not  fail  to  ensure  the  paternal  affection  of 
Washin2;ton. 

Hamilton  had  always  viewed  Burr  with  suspicion,  and 
fearlessly  indifferent  to  consequences,  he  hesitated  not  in 
denouncing  him  as  dangerous  to  the  young  republic.  A  few 
extracts  from  his  correspondence  will  illustrate  the  position 
of  the  parties,  and  place  us  nearer  the  scenes  of  a  half  cen- 
tury past.  Let  them  be  received,  however,  with  the  abate- 
ment due  to  the  intensity  of  political  authorship. 

[Hamilton  to  Sedgwick,  Dec.  22,  1800.]  "The  appoint- 
ment of  Burr  as  President  would  disgrace  our  country 
abroad — no  agreement  with  him  could  be  relied  on.  *  *  His 
ambition  aims  at  nothing  short  of  permanent  power." 

[To  Gov.  Morris,  Dec.  24, 1800.]  "He  is  sanguine  enough 
to  hope  everything — daring  enough  to  attempt  anything — 
wicked  enough  to  scruple  at  nothing.  From  the  elevation  of 
such  a  man,  may  Heaven  save  our  country !" 

[To  Bayard,  Jan.  16,  1800.]  "As  to  Burr,  these  things 
are  admitted,  and  indeed  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  is  a  man 
of  extreme  and  irregular  ambition;  that  he  is  selfish  to  a 
degree,  which  excludes  all  social  affections,  and  that  he  is  de- 
cidedly 'profligate.  .  Beside  this,  the  force  of  Mr.  Burr's 
understanding  is  much  overrated:  he  is  far  more  cunning 
than  wise — for  more  dexterous  than  able." 

[To  the  same,  Aug.  1,  1800.]  "There  seems  to  be  too 
mucli  probability  tliat  Jefferson  or  Burr  will  be  President. 
The  latter  is  intriguing,  with  all  his  might,  in  New  Jersey, 
Rhode  Island,  and  Vermont,  and  there  is  a  possibility  of  some 
success  in  his  intrigues.  *  *  *  Admitting  the  first  point,  the 
conclusion  may  be  realized;  and  if  it  is  so.  Burr  will  certainly 
attempt  to  reform  the  government,  a  la  Bonaparte.     He  is 


136  THE  POLITICIAN. 

as   unprincipled  and  dangerous  a  man  as  any  counti-y  can 
boast — as  true  a  Cataline  as  ever  met  in  midnight  conclave." 

[To  Wolcott,  Dec.  16,  1800.]  *  *  *  "As  to  Burr,  there 
is  nothing  in  his  favor.  *  *  *  He  is  bankrupt*  beyond  re- 
demption, except  by  the  plunder  of  his  country.  His  public 
principles  have  no  other  aim  than  his  own  aggrandizement, 
fer  fas  et  nefas.  If  he  can,  he  certainly  will  disturb  our  in- 
stitutions to  secure  to  himself  permanent  power,  and  with  it 
wealth.     He  is  truly  the  Cataline  of  America." 

Hostile  as  was  the  position  of  these  distinguished  men, 
their  characters  exhibited  some  points  of  close  parallel. 
They  were  equal  in  the  beauty  of  high-bred  manhood  ;  tluy 
were  both  distinguished  in  eloquence  and  in  arms;  both  were 
veteran  politicians;  they  were  almost  identical  in  stature, 
and  differed  but  a  year  in  age.  But  with  these  features  tlie 
parallel  ceases,  and  as  respects  genius  the  difference  was  vast. 
The  one  possessed  ripe  judgment,  broad  political  vision,  and 
tried  patriotism,  and  hence  was  preeminently  the  statesman. 
In  oratory  his  was  the  voice  to  arouse,  to  control,  and  to  pa- 
cify the  masses.  Opulent  in  style,  even  to  redundancy,  he 
seemed  master  of  the  heart — the  very  passions  awaited  liis 
command;  the  sigh,  the  tear,  or  the  indignant  thrill  sped  as 
he  might  list,  and  the  lofty  thought,  or  the  biting  sarcasm,  or 
the  calm  argument  flowed  at  will  from  his  lips,  with  that  ar- 
dency of  manner  which  characterised  the  rhetoric  of  the 
Revolution.  But  fixr  above  all  gifts  was  that  national  confi- 
dence which  he  enjoyed,  and  which  rendered  his  name  a  tower 
of  strength. 

The  influence  of  Burr,  on  the  other  hand,  was  limited  to 
his  immediate  circle  of  friends — of  no  small  extent,  indeed, 
and  closely  knit  to  him  by  the  fliscination  of  his  person  and 


THE  FAMOUS  DUEL.  13  T 

the  peculiar  history  attaching  his  character.  To  the  noble 
name  of  Statesman  he  never  could  lay  chiim.  As  an  orator 
lie  had  many  admirers;  indeed,  as  a  concise,  pungent,  per- 
spicuous speaker,  he  has  seldom  been  equalled;  for  this 
reason  his  speeches  could  not  well  be  reported,  and  of  the 
best  we  have  little  more  than  an  outline.  ,  Upon  the  whole 
it  is  evident  that  he  was  deficient  in  tliat  lofty  tone  which 
ennobled  his  opponent,  whose  penetrating  remark  time  has 
confirmed,  and  thus  proven  that  he  was  "far  more  cunning 

than  wise — more  dexterous  than  able." 

********* 

Linked  as  has  been  the  previous  history  of  these  men,  it 
now  becomes  cemented  by  blood;  and  that  unhappy  tenth  of 
July,  1804,  summons  us  to  renew  its  scenes  of  woe.  Oh,  sad 
tenth  of  July,  awaking  so  serenely  upon  the  horrors  of  fratri- 
cide! And  thou,  Weehawken,  prepare  to  behold  thy  dew 
brushed  away  by  the  nervous  step  of  these  miserable  and 
misguided  men! 

The  seconds  have  carefally  measured  the  ground,  and  as 
carefully  loaded  the  pistols.  What?  next?  Two  men  are 
to  shoot  at  each  other,  in  order  to  prove  their  honor,  while 
two  others  watch  narrowly  that  the  shooting  be  honorably 
done,  according  to  the  code.  And  these  civil-looking  gentle- 
men in  black,  who  seem  as  though  they  would  not  harm  an 
insect,  stand  face  to  face,  at  ten  paces,  each  with  pointed  wea- 
pon, awaiting  the  fatal  word.  How  impressive  the  contrast 
between  Nature's  innocence — the  summer's  loveliness — the 
sweet  matins  of  the  woodlark  and  robin — and  the  part  which 
man  is  to  play  in  this  bewildering  scene! 


138  THE  POLITICIAN. 

"With  other  ministrations  thou,  0  Nature! 
Ilealest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child; 
Thou  pourest  upon  him  thy  soft  influences, 
Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets ; 
Thy  melodies  of  words,  and  winds,  and  waters, 
Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing, 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy; 
But  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized."  * 

Would  that  these  lines  were  as  true  as  thcv  are  beautiful. 
But  the  human  heart  is  as  little  moved  from  evil  purposes  by 
the  voice  of  Nature  as  is  the  ravening  beast.  To  either  the 
poet  might  sing,  with  equal  disappointment,  for  it  is  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  scene  that  we  witness  a  damning  deed.  Yes ! 
the  seconds  utter  the  signal,  and  the  affair  of  honor  is  done — 
for  in  that  instant  one  falls,  writhing  in  blood,  and  the  other 
hies  away,  covered  with  everlasting  guilt. 

It  is  evident  that  Hamilton  had  long  regarded  the  duel  as 
a  remnant  of  barbarism,  but  he  could  not  break  the  bondage 
of  a  false  code  of  honor.  Twenty  years  before,  he  had  served 
as  a  second;  and  now,  in  the  ripe  judgment  of  manhood,  ho 
violates  his  conscience  by  appearing  as  a  principal — or,  rather, 
as  a  victim  to  that  code  which  he  abhorred. 

Dr.  Ilosack  states  that  he  found  Hamilton  sitting  on  the 
ground,  upheld  by  the  arms  of  his  second:  "His  countenance 
I  never  shall  forget;  he  had  at  that  instant  just  strength 
enough  to  say,  'This  is  a  mortal  wound,'  when  he  sunk  away, 
and  became  to  all  appearance  lifeless."  The  dying  man  was 
conveyed  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  in  the  suburbs  of  New 
York.     As  the  skiff  shot  across  the  river,  the  sea-breeze  re- 

*  Coleridge. 


THE  BEREAVED  FAMILY.  139 

vived  liim — he  opened  his  eyes,  and  turning  to  the  surgeon, 
uttered  a  few  faltering  words.  The  memory  of  his  wife  and 
children  had  aroused  him  to  consciousness — "  Let  her  be  sent 
for,  but  break  the  news  gently,  and  give  her  hopes." 

The  meeting  of  the  Hamiltons  about  the  bed  of  the  mis-Mj 
guided  father  was  one  ol  those  scenes  in  which  history  exceeds 
the '  deepest  hues  of  romance.  The  very  pen  shrinks  from 
an  attempt  at  description.  But  yesterday  that  father  was 
buoyant  with  life — to-day  he  is  writhing  in  the  agony  of  dis- 
solution! But  yesterday  the  merry  laugh  and  the  kiss  of 
affection  cheered  that  home,  and  hushed  the  voice  of  boding 
care — to-day,  in  their  place,  are  heard  the  widow's  groan  and 
the  wail  of  orphanage!  And  this  is  an  affair  of  honor! 
What  deeds,  then,  shall  we  desiirnate  bv  Shame? 

A  posthumous  paper  calmly  sets  forth  Hamilton's  reasons, 
or  rather  his  excuses  for  accepting  the  challenge,  while  it 
avows  his  determination  to  throw  away  his  fire.  Alas  for 
the  weakness  of  so  great  a  mind  J  After  following  to  the 
grave,  but  a  few  years  previously,  his  own  son — a  similar 
victim  to  duelling — had  he  not  sufficient  firmness  to  abide  by 
the  convictions  of  conscience?  No! — here  even  the  courage 
of  Hamilton  failed.  He  could  storm  the  batteries  of  York- 
town,  but  he  could  not  face  the  current  of  a  public  sentiment 
which  he  knew  to  be  false. 

The  dying  man  exhibited  his  wonted  serenity,  even  under 
what  he  knew  to  be  mortal  agony — yet  a  mountain  of  woe 
lay  upon  his  soul  and  compelled  the  frequent  and  bitter  utter- 
ance, "My  beloved  wife  and  children!"  Once  tliey  were 
gathered  about  his  couch,  in  order  that  he  might  Ijid  them 
farewell — but  the  scene  exceeded  his  endurance,  arid  he  closed 
his  eyes  until  they  were  removed.    Yet,  notwithstanding  this, 


140  THE  POLITICIAN. 

so  great  was  his  composure,  that  as  his  wife  sat  by  his  side, 
ill  the  calmness  of  stifled  agony,  he  strove  to  console  her  with 
the  soothing  and  oft-repeated  voice  of  affection,  faltering  with 
these  words:  "Remember,  Eliza,  you  are  a  Christian!" 

Hamilton's  obsequies  have  not  yet  been  forgotten  in  the 
city  where  they  were  celebrated.  All  classes  and  all  parties, 
however  divided  by  opinion,  united  in  a  solemn  expression  of 
honor  and  grief  for  departed  greatness.  The  vast  procession 
seemed  overcome  with  woe — it  exhibited  the  sublimity  of 
numbers  and  the  unutterable  pathos  of  public  misfortune. 
The  bereaved  populace  followed  the  remains  of  the  unfortu- 
nate statesman  to  its  place  of  rest  in  Trinity  burial-ground, 
and  then  listened  to  an  impressive  eulogy  which  was  delivered 
by  Governeur  ^Morris  from  a  stage  in  front  of  the  churcli. 
Four  surviving  children,  from  six  to  sixteen  years  of  age,  sat 
by  the  speaker's  side,  and  their  mute  eloquence  completed 
the  mournful  grandeur  of  the  scene. 

As  the  Broadway  pedestrian  passes  Trinity  Church,  he  may 
seldom  think  of  him  whose  remains  repose  so  near  the  crowded 
avenue;  but  he  will  note,  iij  one  of  the  cloisters  of  that  grace- 
ful minster,  the  tablet  erected  to  his  memory  by  the  affec- 
tionate brotherhood  of  the  Cincinnati,* 

Upon  the  death  of  Hamilton  public  opinion  rolled  its  ver- 
dict upon  his  slayer.     It  was  a  verdict  of  such  indignation  that 

*  "This  tablet  docs  not  propose  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  age  has  produced  no  superior,  nor  to  emblazon  worth  eminently 
conspicuous  in  every  feature  of  his  country's  greatness,  nor  to  anticipate 
posterity  in  their  judgment  of  the  loss  which  she  has  sustained  by  his 
premature  death ;  but  to  attest,  in  the  simplicity  of  giicf,  the  veneration 
and  anguish  which  fills  the  hearts  of  the  members  of  the  Society  of  the 
Ciucinnati,  on  every  recollection  of  their  illustrious  brother,  Major  General 
Alexander  Hamilton." 


THE  DUELIST'S  FLIGHT.  141 

its  force  seemed  like  that  of  an  avalanche.  "Words  fail  to 
express  the  anathema — not  of  a  party,  but  of  the  nation.  All 
political  differences  were  absorbed  in  the  current  of  popular 
wrath  which  burst  upon  the  successful  duellist,  and  which, 
however  subsided,  followed  him  to  the  grave.  And  who, 
after  that  fatal  tenth  of  July,  was  the  more  to  be  pitied^ — the 
living  or  the  dead?  The  former  had  been  laid  in  an  untimely 
grave,  but  the  latter  was  under  indictment  for  murder,  both 
in  New  York  and  in  New  Jersey.  Having  fled  beyond  the 
bounds  of  either  state,  he  escaped  immediate  trial,  and  even- 
tually no  action  was  had  upon  the  bills  thus  found. 

Under  the  load  of  infamy  thus  newly  fallen  on  him,  Burr 
at  first  seems  to  have  reeled,  and  to  have  almost  sunk;  but 
the  recuperative  powers  of  a  strong  mind  and  an  iron  will 
restored  his  wonted  impassibility.  His  position  and  feelings 
at  this  time  are  illustrated  by  his  letters  to  Mr.  Alston,  the 
husband  of  Theodosia.  "General  Hamilton  died  yesterday  ; 
all  unite  in  exciting  sympathy  in  his  favor,  and  indignation 
against  his  antagonist.  I  purpose  leaving  town,  but  know 
not  whither." 

Having  fled  to  Philadelphia,  he  writes,  a  week  subsequently. 
"The  duel  has  driven  me  into  exile  from  New  York,  and  it 
may  be  perpetual.  A  coroner's  jury  is  now  sitting,  for  the 
fourth  time.  They  are  determined  to  have  a  verdict  of  mui-- 
der;  and  if  a  warrant  be  issued  on  the  inquest,  and  I  be 
taken,  no  bail  will  be  allowed." 

Two  weeks  afterward  he  writes  from  the  same  place:  "The 
jury  continued  to  sit  and  adjourn  for  fifteen  days;  my  second 
has  secreted  hlnaself,  and  two  of  my  friends  are  in  jail  for 
refusing  to  testify  against  me.  How  long  this  persecution 
may  Jast  I  cannot  toll.'" 


142  THE  POLITICIAN, 

In  a  few  days  he  again  writes  to  his  anxious  son-in-law : 
"The  jury  has  brought  in  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder,  and  I 
am  informed  that  the  Governor  will  be  required  to  make  re- 
quisition on  this  state  for  me — I  shall,  notwithstanding, 
remain  a  few  days." 

The  road  from  New  York  to  Philadelphia  had  been  flimiliar 

to  his  pious  ancestors,  in  their  journey ings  as  messengers  of 

the  Gospel  of  Peace;  but  the  descendant  of  those  honored 

pastors  now  fled  along  that  great  highway — a  blood-stained 

fugitive  from  justice. 

********* 

The  next  scene  in  this  career  of  moral  shipwreck  is  the 
.  Court  House  in  Richmond.  The  boy  Infidel  who  nearly  forty 
years  before  foi  sook  Father  Bellamy's  parsonage,  imbued  with 
contempt  for  his  teachings,  is  now  developing  an  advanced 
stage  in  his  downward  course.  A  cunning,  yet  unsuccessful 
partizan — a  noted  duellist — an  adulterer,  stained  by  countless 
intrigues — he  now  appears  before  us,  a  prisoner  of  the 
United  States,  charged  with  treason.  It  is  1808,  just  fifty- 
two  years  since  Esther  first  dandled  her  babe  in  the  rude 
parsonage  at  Newark.  His  locks  are  now  quite  silvered,  but 
his  form  is  erect  and  graceful,  and  his  military  air  is  un- 
changed, while  his  eye  flashes  with  undimmed  radiance. 

AVc  pass  over  the  years  intervening  since  the  duel,  as  they 
embrace  matters  not  relevant  to  our  subject.  Among  their 
events,  however,  may  be  recorded  his  long  sojourn  at  the 
south,  and  his  return  to  Washington,  where  he  fidfillcd  the 
duties  of  the  Vice  Presidency,  and  where,  at  its  close,  he 
delivered  that  brief  but  touching  valedictory  which  moved 
his  andii'iicc,  in  somi'  instances,  to  tciirs. 

After  years  of  investigation  liavc-  thrown  ail  possible  light 


BURR'S  AMBITIOUS  SCHEMES.  143 

upon  the  question,  it  is  still  impossible  to  specify  the  precise 
character  of  those  plottings  for  which  Burr  was  arrested. 
The  two  years  of  his  life  preceding  that  arrest  had  been  en- 
grossed by  schemes  so  mysterious  that  at  last  they  justified 
the  darkest  suspicions.  It  was  well  known  that  he  had  tra- 
versed the  vast  extent  of  the  western  frontier,  holding 
conferences  with  prominent  citizens,  and  even  with  officers  of 
the  government;  and  as  these  facts  took  root  in  the  public 
mind  it  became  rife  with  the  excitement  of  impending  danger. 
But  the  great  end  of  this  dark  enterprise  was  still  secret,  and 
was  never  frankly  divulged,  even  to  his  most  intimate  friends. 
Like  many  other  of  his  secrets,  it  died  with  him.  We  may 
state,  as  the  popular  opinion,  that  it  was  the  invasion  of  Mex- 
ico, and  the  establishment  of  the  Burr  dynasty  upon  the 
usurped  throne;  while  the  dismembering  of  the  Union  was  an 
adjunct  of  the  scheme.  This  may  be  accepted  as  close  ap- 
proximation to  a  point  never  clearly  settled;  and,  acting  on 
a  similar  view,  the  government  charged  him  with  a  conspi- 
racy for  its  dissolution.     That  charge  was  never  proven. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  however,  that  Burr  was  daz- 
zled by  the  splendid  career  of  Napoleon,  and  had  determined, 
like  him,  to  establish  a  new  polity,  which  should  restore  his 
flillen  fortunes  and  renew  the  lustre  of  his  tarnished  name. 
This  would  require  the  secession  of  several  of  the  southern 
states,  or  rather  territories,  and  the  colonizing  of  vast  tracts 
of  wild  land.  Louisiana  had  recently  been  purchased  from 
France,  and  was  far  from  being  in  sympathy  with  its  new 
owners.  This  foct  added  much  to  the  chance  of  success,  and 
adventurers  from  New  York  made  their  way  to  New  Orleans, 
where  they  expected  to  meet  recruits  from  Ohio. 

But  ilotwithstanding  his  military  genius  the  great  secession- 


144  THE  POLITICIAN. 

ist  of  his  (lay  failed.  Like  those  who,  following  his  example 
at  a  later  day,  have  plunged  America  in  civil  war,  he  had 
undertaken  a  work  vastly  beyond  his  powers.  The  adventu- 
rers disbanded  on  their  arrival  at  New  Orleans — the  feeble 
organization  along  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  collapsed,  and 
the  progress  of  their  leader  was  brought  to  a  sudden  close 
as  he  was  traveKing  on  the  Tombigbee.  It  was  his  second 
arrest,  and  he  was  conveyed  to  Richmond  for  trial,  while  the 
bursting  of  a  bubble  so  splendid  and  so  threatening  threw  the 
nation  into  increased  excitement,  and  afforded  an  inexhaust- 
i])le  theme  for  public  discussion.  The  Sheriff  exhibited  no 
little  awe,  as  for  a  few  days  he  was  required  to  hold  in  durance 
so  distinguished  a  criminal,  and  readily  furnished  him  with 
the  best  accommodations  of  the  jail.  "  I  hope.  Colonel  Burr," 
exclaimed  the  polite  turnkey,  "  that  it  will  not  be  disagreeable 
to  you  if  I  lock  the  door?"  "By  no  means,"  was  the  reply, 
"it  will  keep  out  intruders." 

The  trial  of  Aaron  Burr  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in 
our  country's  history.  A  little  more  than  fifty  years  have 
passed  away  since  the  American  bar  was  engrossed  with  its 
details.  Nor  was  the  bar  of  that  day  soon  to  be  excelled. 
In  Kentucky  Henry  Clay  was  just  opening  his  long  and  bril- 
liant career.  In  Massachusetts  the  brothers  Ezekiel  and 
Daniel  Webster  were  bending  their  mighty  energies  to  their 
profession.  In  New  York  city  De  Witt  Clinton  was  exchang- 
ing the  duties  of  the  court  room  for  those  of  the  senate 
chamber;  but  Brockholdst  Livingston,  Cadwallader  D.  Cul- 
den,  and  Chancellor  Kent  were  maintaining  the  reputation  of 
that  bar  which  once  had  been  graced  by  the  unapproacliable 
Hamilton.  In  Albany  Ambrose  Spencer  had  won  distinc- 
tion, which  he  only  sliarcd  with  tlie  IIl;nrys  and  the  ^^  ood- 


SCENES  IN  RICHMOND  COURT  HOUSE.  145 

worths,  while  iu  Johnstown  Daniel  Cady  was  laying  the 
foundation  of  his  greatness.  Such  were  the  men  who  from  a 
distance,  day  by  day,  awaited  the  reports  of  that  famous 
assize. 

Those  who  were  present  could  have  seen  Eichmond  Court 
House  thronged  with  the  magnates  of  the  land — there  sat  the 
wealthy  tobacco-planters  of  the  James  River,  contrasted  with 
groups  of  ladies,  eager  to  behold  the  far-famed  culprit;  there 
stood  the  United  States  Marshal,  with  his  aids,  in  uniform, 
and  in  all  the  dignity  of  high  office — there  sat  the  pale  and 
nervous  form  of  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  the  foreman  of 
the  grand  jury,  tremulous  with  excitement;  while  near  by 
might  have  been  seen  "Washington  Irving,  the  Apollo  of  early 
American  literature,  in  all  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  open- 
ing manhood,  but  with  moistened  eye  and  cheek  flushed  with 
indignation  and  sympathy  for  the  prisoner.  The  bar  was 
crowded  by  careworn  attorneys,  half  buried  in  huge  piles  of 
testimony;  while  upon  the  bench,  presiding  at  this  august 
tribunal,  aj)peared  the  majestic  form  of  John  Marshall,  Chief 
Justice  of  the  United  States.  Judge  Marshall  was  inter- 
mingling the  duties  of  the  jurist  with  those  of  the  historian, 
and  had  already  published  the  Life  of  Washington;  but 
little  could  he  have  dreamed  that  in  that  court-room  there 
stood  one  who  should  bear  from  him  the  palm  as  the  biogra- 
pher of  the  great  liberator,  and  stand  as  exalted  in  literature 
as  he  himself  was  upon  the  bench.  But  how  different  the 
feelinjrs  of  these  two  illustrious  Americans!  The  one  sat  in 
judgment — the  other,  though  a  political  opponent,  gazed  witli 
all  the  emotion  of  a  generous  heart  on  one  thus  flillen  on  evil 
days,  and  who,  instead  of  being  the  leader  of  New  Y#rk,  now 
stood  arraigned  for  treason. 

7 


146  THE  POLITICIAN. 

In  the  midst  of  this  array  there  sat  one  in  whom  all  its 
mighty  interest  centred;  but  instead  of  the  whiskered  Draw- 
eansir  which  some  looked  for,  they  saw  a  small  man,  of  calm 
and  elegant  deportment,  yet  one  sternly  resolute,  and  un- 
moved by  the  tremendous  charge  which  overhung  him.  The 
trial  was  marked  by  a  surprising  degree  of  bitterness  and 
asperity,  and  the  counsel  seemed  but  seconds  to  a  duel 
between  the  President  and  the  prisoner,  to  be  fought  there, 
in  Richmond  Court  House,  with  heated  words  and  vitupera- 
tion as  well  as  with  legal  argument.  "We  do  not,"  exclaimed 
Wirt,  "  stand  here  to  pronounce  a  panegyric  on  the  prisoner, 
but  to  urge  upon  him  the  crime  of  treason.  When  we  speak 
of  treason,  we  must  call  it  treason;  when  we  speak  of  a  trai- 
tor, we  must  call  him  a  traitor."  In  the  defence  five  distin- 
guished lawyers  were  associated  Avith  the  prisoner  himself. 
It  was  an  affair  of  tedious  length — fifty  witnesses  were  sworn, 
and  their  cross  examination  revealed  hideous  depths  of  per- 
jury. The  government  put  forth  every  attempt  to  obtain  a 
conviction,  but  foiled.  But  Burr  here  received  a  lasting 
stigma — a  man  of  plots  and  conspiracies,  he  left  Richmond 
acquitted  but  ruined. 

Wirt's  philippic  on  this  occasion  is  the  best  known  of  all 
his  efforts.  He  was  at  that  time  in  the  full  glory  of  manhood ; 
his  countenance  still  indicating  his  German  origin,  his  sihi-r 
voice  occasionally  charged  with  Teutonic  thunder,  his  blue 
eye,  his  crisp  locks — every  feature  and  every  member  instinct 
with  the  grace  of  eloquence.  There,  in  the  midst  of  that 
{•(invulsed  auditory  he  stood,  leading  it  at  his  will — at  one 
time  through  the  depths  of  constitutional  law;  at  another  by 
the  banks  of  the  sinuous  Ohio,  where  he  recalls  that  Eden 
wliicli  once  bloomed  within  its  bosom,  and  in  which  tlic  exile 


BURR  CROSSES  THE  ATLANTIC.  147 

Blcnnerhasset  finds  solace  for  his  misfortunes.  Then  he  pre- 
sents that  Eden  desolated  by  the  successful  intrigues  of  the 
prisoner,  on  whom  he  pours  the  torrent  of  invective,  such  as 
those  walls  have  never  heard  before.  Thus  hour  after  hour 
he  urges  the  dark  catalogue  of  crime,  until  the  audience 
shrunk  aghast — the  jury  trembled  in  its  seat — the  bar  was  in 
an  ecstacy  of  admiration — while,  fixed  on  that  fell  accuser, 
was  the  prisoner's  gaze — his  countenance  unblenched — his 
form  motionless — while  his  stern  black  eye  flashes  back  its 
defiant  lightnings.  And  hour  after  hour  the  flood  of  aecusa- 
tiun  leaps  forth,  sweeping  away  with  it  all  sympathy,  until 
that  spell-bound  auditory  has  lost  sight  of  all  but  two  objects 
on  earth — the  one  a  mighty  crime — the  other  a  mighty  cri- 
minal, on  whom  it  is  called  to  pronounce  judgment. 

*****  *         *  *         *         * 

The  next  scene  bears  us  across  the  Atlantic.  We  are  in 
Paris,  under  the  stern  rule  of  Napoleon.  As  we  walk  the 
street  we  mark  the  same  martial  form — the  same  fascinating 
smile,  and  the  same  piercing  gaze  which  years  ago  commanded 
the  admiration  of  the  gay  circles  of  Richmond  Hill.  Then  he 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  host  of  friends  and  admirers — now  he 
is  alone.  Alone  he  paces  the  thronged  boulevard — alone  he 
eats  his  scanty  meal  in  the  cafe — alone  he  walks  his  silent 
lodcfins;.     How  much  there  is  written  in  that  word,  alone. 

"  In  '  nevermore '  there  is  despair ; 

In  '  fare-thee-well '  a  dirge-like  tone; 
But  agony,  too  hard  to  bear, 

Breathes  in  that  mournful  word,  alone. 
It  tells  of  broken  hearts  and  ties — 
-,  Long  silent  lips  and  curtained  eyes ; 

Of  vanished  birds — abandoned  nests, 
And  white  hands  clasped  on  silent  breasts. 


148  THE  ruLlTK'IAN. 

"Alone!  alone!  what  echoes  wake 

In  memory's  cavcm  at  the  sonnd  ? 
While  phantoms  their  appearance  make, 

As  if  the  lost  again  were  found. 
But  oh,  how  desolate  that  thought! 
Such  figures  are  of  moonlight  wrou_i;lit. 
Alone !  alone !  no  sadder  word 
By  mortal  ear  la  ever  heard."* 

That  lonely  sojourn  in  Paris  which  is  now  before  us  had 
succeeded  a  brief  residence  in  England.  A  new  project  had 
engaged  his  restless  and  adventurous  mind,  and  he  had  soli- 
cited the  aid  of  the  British  government  to  redeem  Mexico 
from  Spanish  misrule,  A  few  weeks  residence,  however,  in 
England  convinced  him  of  the  futility  of  his  hopes.  So  far 
from  being  received  by  the  government,  he  found  himself  an 
object  of  its  suspicion.  His  steps  were  dogged  by  spies,  not 
less  than  when  he  wandered  along  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and 
Tombigbee.  While  travelling  through  the  kingdom  the  po- 
lice wariied  him  to  return  to  London;  here  he  was  arrested, 
searched,  held  in  durance  several  days,  and  only  released  with 
an  injunction  to  depart  the  country.  Cast  out  of  England, 
he  embarked  for  Germany;  from  Germany  he  travelled  to 
Sweden,  and  from  Sweden  to  France,  where  he  now  appears 
before  us.  Here,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  that  his  reputation 
had  preceded  him;  and  no  sooner  had  Napoleon  learned  of  his 
arrival  than  he  was  surrounded  with  a  net-work  of  espionage. 
A  few  weeks  were  passed  in  Paris,  under  the  sleepless  eye  of 
111"  i)olice,  during  which  he  was  denied  all  access  to  that  great 
loader  in  whom  he  had  hoped  for  a  patron;  and  as  the 
disappointed  wanderer  attempts  to  depart,   he   i'mds,  t(»  his 

*   llc-^iiior. 


IS  REDUCED  TO  WANT.  1-^^ 

.istonishment,  that  permission  is  denied  him.  Bm-r  "svas 
thus  numbered  among  those  detenus,  to  whom  Napoleon 
cruelly  refused  passports,  thus  holding  a  large  class  of  foreign 
citizens  in  exile,  many  of  whom  never  returned  to  their  kin- 
dred, but  wore  out  their  weary  lives  in  a  strange  land. 

Durino-  this  time  his  remittances  from  America  were  cut 
off,  and  the  luxury  of  his  better  years  was  exchanged  for 
bitter  poverty.  It  was  with  difficulty,  indeed,  that  he  obtained 
the  necessaries  of  life,  and  the  privations  recorded  in  his 
diary  command  our  sympathies.  "Nothing  from  America, 
and  I  am  on  the  point  of  starving;  borrowed  three  francs 
today ;  two  or  three  little  debts  threaten  me  with  a  jail." 

Again :  "  Paid  my  last  sous  today ;  started  to  take  a  walk 
to  St.  Pehune,  when  I  recollected  that  I  should  pass  the  stand 
of  a  woman  whom  I  owed  two  sous  for  a  sogar,  so  I  changed 
my  course  for  the  bridge  Des  Arts,  but  suddenly  I  remember- 
ed that  I  had  not  a  sous  to  pay  toll,  and  therefore  went  back." 
Such  are  some  of  the  vicissitudes  of  an  eventful  life.     Tea 
years  ago  he  dwelt  in  lordly  elegance,  surrounded  by  friends 
and  clients-— now  he  stands  before  us,  a  solitary  and  famished 
exile.     But  at  last  a  passport  was  obtained,  and  he  embarked 
in  a  French  ship  bound  for  America.     Strangely,  however, 
the  providence  of  God  again  crosses  his  path — alas !  must  he 
fulfil   the  wanderings   of  a   second  Cain?     The  vessel  was 
captured  by  a  British  cruiser,  and  he  was  turned  adrift  in  an 
English  seaport,  with  hardly  a  penny  in  his  pocket.     Having 
no  means  of  obtaining  passage  across  the  Atlantic,  he  was 
saved  from  utter  destitution  by  the  hospitality  of  Jeremy 
Bentham.     In  a  few  months  he  embarked  again,  with  better 
success,  and  arrived  in  New  York  in  1812,  just  before  the 
declaration  of  war. 


150  THE  POLITICIAN. 

On  his  return,  Col.  Burr  reestablished  himself  in  New  York 
in  the  practice  of  the  law.  He  was  little  more  than  the 
wreck  of  that  genius  which  once  contested  with  Hamilton  fur 
preeminence  at  the  bar,  and  which  could  boast  of  the  supre- 
macy of  the  northern  democracy.  The  thirst  of  ambition 
and  the  hope  of  military  fame  had  alike  passed  away,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years  he  appeared  in  court  an  unassum- 
ing attorney.  Sixty  years  had  silvered  his  brow,  and  dimmed 
the  fire  of  his  eye;  but  old  friends  rallied  about  him — new 
clients  sought  his  aid,  and  the  cloud  which  had  shrouded  his 
name  seemed  breaking  away.  This  prospect,  however,  was 
soon  to  be  blighted.  He  was  only  ripening  for  another 
blow — one  whose  overwhelming  desolation  should  cause  all 
previous  misfortunes  to  be  forgotten — one  which  should  finish 
the  work  of  retribution,  and  sweep  out  of  existence  what- 
ever might  have  redeemed  the  wretchedness  of  age. 

There  was,  indeed,  one  spot  which  remained  green  and 
fragrant  in  his  soul — there  was  one  heartstring  wliicli  had 
not  been  broken — there  was  one  treasure  which  compensated 
for  his  poverty.  All  these  were  summed  up  in  the  name  of 
Theodosia. 

Among  those  who  grace  the  highest  rank  of  female  por- 
traiture, whose  genius  may  command  admiration,  or  wliose 
misfortunes  may  awaken  our  sympathy,  we  recognise  that 
gifted  but  unfortunate  one,  of  whom  American  womanhood 
is  so  justly  proud,  while  it  bewails  her  sad  and  mysterious 
fate.  She  inherited  much  of  her  father's  talent,  and  having 
been  educated  by  him  with  sedulous  care,  was  early  intro- 
duced into  the  gay  and  brilliant  circles  of  the  day.  Beautiful, 
high  toned  and  accomplished,  Theodosia  Burr,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  was  the  cynosure  of  the  social  and  esthetic,  and,  we 


THEODOSIA  BURR.  151 

had  almost  added,  the  intellectual  circles  of  New  York,  She 
was  the  only  one  whom  her  father  ever  deeply  loved,  and 
whatever  capacity  he  possessed  for  refined  attachment  was 
exhausted  by  his  paternal  affection.  The  bond  of  their  union 
was  of  no  ordinary  strength ;  and  she,  who  only  knew  Aaron 
Burr  in  genial,  fireside  hours,  when  cunning  and  intrigue 
were  for  the  time  banished,  and  his  splendid  mind,  whose 
fascination  all  confessed,  poured  forth  its  brilliant  conversa- 
tion, must  have  been  rapt  in  admiration,  even  if  a  daughter's 
love  had  not  thrilled  her  heart. 

There  are  ladies  still  to  be  met,  though  Time  has  laid  his 
blanched  honors  upon  their  brows,  and  bowed  their  graceful 
forms — ladies,  whose  sons  have  even  passed  the  meridian, 
and  whose  children's  children  are  just  entering  life's  active 
sphere — ladies  who  love  to  recall  bygone  scenes,  and  to  dwell 
amid  the  fragrant  memories  of  the  past — who  can  describe 
that  serene  and  dignified,  though  petite  form,  that  Grecian 
outline,  and  that  sparkling  repartee,  which  marked  the  com- 
panion of  their  early  days.  They  can,  through  the  vista  of 
a  half  century,  call  up  the  social  hours,  the  Kuirees  and  re 
unions  of  Riclimond  Hill,  where  the  Crugers,  the  Livingstons, 
the  Clintons  and  the  Hoffhians  were  received  with  less  sjilendor, 
but  with  far  more  of  the  graces  of  the  intellect  than  is  now 
to  be  found  in  the  palaces  of  the  Fifth  Avenue.  Nay,  there 
are  courtly  old  men  with  us  yet,  who,  notwithstanding  thr.t 
Time  has  conquered  romance,  will  confess  the  adoration  oflcTcd 
in  the  days  of  their  youth  upon  Theodosia's  shrine — and  who 
will  not  deny  the  pang  which  followed  her  union  with  a 
southern  lover.  This  took  place  in  the  year  1800,  when  she 
married  Joseph  Alston,  of  South  Carolina — a  gentleman  of 
distinguished  family,  slightly  her  senior — who  combined  the 


152  THE  POLITICIAN". 

attractions  of  wealth  and  education  Avitli  those  of  political 
influence.     It  was 

"  A  love  that  took  an  early  root, 
And  had  an  early  doom ; 
Like  trees  that  never  come  to  fruit, 
But  early  shed  their  bloom. 

"  With  vanished  hopes  and  happy  smiles, 
All  lost  for  evermore ; 
Like  ships  that  sailed  for  sunny  isles, 
But  never  came  to  shore." 

The  alliance  gave  to  the  father  of  the  bride  the  vote  of  the 
state  during  his  unsuccessful  canvass  for  the  Presidency,  and 
Alston  was  subsequently  chosen  its  governor.  He  was  an 
ardent  admirer  of  Col.  Burr,  whose  name  was  given  to  their 
only  child.  During  each  deeper  descent  into  misfortune  this 
noble  pair  clung  to  their  father,  drawing  the  nearer  as  public 
opinion  heaped  ignominy  upon  his  name.  And  now,  severed 
from  the  world,  and  forsaken  by  fortune,  all  that  earth  held 
dear  to  him  was  bounded  by  that  faithful  household.  Alas ! 
could  it  not  be  spared?  Does  retribution  demand  the  sole 
remaining  bliss  of  a  lonely  old  man?  Must  he  witness  the 
gradual  extinction  of  his  race?  Such,  indeed,  seems  the  re- 
lentless decree.  The  blight  which  had  withered  him  now 
extends  to  his  kin,  and  thus  all  who  were  identified  with  his 
name  shared  the  anathema  which  pursued  it. 

Soon  after  his  return  from  Europe  he  received  a  letter 
from  his  son-in-law,  from  which  we  make  the  following  ex- 
tracts: "A/cw  weeks  ago,  sir,  in  spite  of  your  misfortunes, 
I  should  have  congratulated  you  upon  your  return ;  now  one 
dreadful  blow  has  destroyed  us  and  our  hopes.     That  son  on 


A  HEART  BROKEN  HUSBAND.  153 

> 
M'hom  we  rested — our  companion,  our  friend — he  whom  we 

hoped  to  have  redeemed  your  reverses,  and  shed  new  lustre 

on  our  name — tliat  son  is  dead.     "We  saw  him  die — my  own 

hand  surrendered  him  to  the  grave.     But  it  is  past!     I  will 

not  conceal  that  life  is  now  a  burden,  which,  heavy  as  it  is, 

we  shall  both  support  with  decency  and  firmness.    Theodosia 

lias  endured  all  that  a  human  being  is  capable  of,  and  has 

proved  herself  worthy  of  being  your  daughter.     Our  plans 

of  life  are  now  broken  up,  and  she  will  join  you,  as  soon  as 

possible,  to  mingle  her  tears  with  yours." 

Ah!  weep  not,  thou  gentle  yet  heart-broken  Theodosia! 
Those  tears,  which  now  bedew  thy  lost  one's  grave,  will  soon 
cease,  and  a  more  pungent  woe  will  bewail  thy  more  fearful 
doom.  Haste  thee  to  the  old  man's  arms — those  crimes 
which  have  steeled  humanity  against  him  cannot  weaken  a 
daughter's  love !  Yet,  alas !  that  father's  embrace  thou  ne'er 
shalt  know  again.  Even  now  there  awaits  thee  a  grave  be- 
neath the  green  billow — even  now  tho  storm  wind  is  sighing 
thy  requiem !  In  a  few  weeks  Theodosia  sailed  from  Charles- 
ton for  New  York,  and  her  husband  thus  writes  her : 

"  Another  mail,  and  still  no  letter !  I  hear  rumors  of  a 
dreadful  gale  since  you  left — the  state  of  my  mind  is  agony. 
Let  no  man,  wretched  as  he  may  be,  think  himself  beyond 
the  reach  of  another  blow.  I  shall  count  the  hours  until  the 
next  mail." 

In  four  days  he  writes  again:  "Wretched  and  heart-rending 
forebodings  distract  me.  I  may  no  longer  possess  a  wife,  yet 
my  impatient  restlessness  addresses  her  a  letter!  Tomorro^v 
is  three  weeks  since  we  parted.  Gracious  God!  for  what 
fate  am  I  reserved?" 

Unfortunate  man  !  thy  forebodings  are  but  too  true — those 


154  THE  POLITICIAN. 


trembling  lines  shall  never  meet  thy  Theodosia's  eye.^»'  Upon 
amber  bed,  in  some  coral  cave,  thy  loved  one  has  found  a 
place  of  rest,  and  thou  mayest  dream  of  her  as  df  one  of 
whom 

"Nothing that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

In  a  short  time  Alston  again  addresses  the  father:  "You 
ask  me  to  relieve  your  suspense.  Alas !  it  is  to  you  that  I 
have  looked  for  similar  relief.  Tomorrow  will  be  four  weeks 
since  I  parted  with  Theodosia,  since  which  not  one  line  has 
been  received.  My  mind  is  in  torture!  Not  one  word  of 
vessel  or  wife!  Sir,  when  I  turned  from  the  grave  of  my 
son,  I  thought  that  misfortune  could  have  no  severer  blow  for 
me.     I  was  mistaken.    Theodosia  is  either  captured  or  lost!" 

After  six  months  of  correspondence  with  neighboring  ports, 
and  every  possible  search,  ke  again  writes :  "  No  hope  is  left 
us!  Without  this  victim  our  desolation  would  have  been 
incomplete.  You  may  well  observe,  sir,  that  you  feel  severed 
from  all  mankind.  She  was  the  last  tie  that  bound  us  to  our 
race.  What  more  have  we  left]  I  have  been  to  the  apart- 
ment where  her  clothing,  her  books,  and  the  playthings  of 
my  boy  renewed  the  ohock.  I  walked  to  his  grave — the 
little  plans  which  we  had  formed  rushed  into  my  mind. 
Where  was  that  bright-eyed  boy? — where  that  mother,  whom 
I  had  cherished  with  such  pride?  Grief,  sii-,  made  me  stupid, 
or  I  could  not  have  borne  it." 

We  forbear  further  extracts  from  this  sad  correspondence; 
it  seems  like  some  bewildering  di'cam  of  woe,  or  some  epi- 
sode of  heart-rending  romance.     Yet  it  is  all  in  keeping  with 


^c^':?^^ 


t 


A  DOUBLE  CATASTROPHE.  155 

the  life  of  one  who  united  romance  and  crime,  but  found 
that  the  first  only  sharpened  the  sting  of  the  second.  One  of 
the  most  painful  features  in  the  history  of  the  Alstons  is  the 
entire  absence  of  religious  hope,  and  the  consolations  of  the 
gospel.  The  only  support  was  neglected  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
and  the  soul's  anchor  was  abandoned  in  this  overwhelmin"- 
storm.  Mr.  Alston  sank  under  the  double  catastrophe,  and, 
after  a  few  years  of  decline,  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

Th.e  destruction  of  this  family  was  the  finishing  stroke  of 
external  retribution.  Against  all  previous  adversities  Burr 
had  fortified  himself  with  a  stoical  apathy;  but  now  the 
sword  pierced  to  the  very  soul.  Schiller  finely  alludes  to  the 
power  of  time  to  soothe  the  agony  of  bereavement,  as  he 
portrays  the  conflicts  of  the  great  but  unfortunate  Wallen- 
stein : 

"  This  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,  I  know ; 
What  pang  is  permanent  with  man?     From  the  highest, 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day, 
He  learns  to  wean  himself;  for  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him." 

But  beautiful  as  this  sentiment  may  be.  Nature  denies  its 
absolute  truth;  there  are  griefs  which  visit  us  in  age,  when 
time  is  shorn  of  its  healing  power,  and  the  hours  have  lost 
their  strength. 

"Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries 

Even  in  our  ashes  Hve  their  wonted  fires." 

********* 

The  last  scene  now  opens  before  us.  It  is  the  shattered 
and  diminutive  old  man,  as  he  was  seen  occasionally  in  the 
streets,  nearly  a  (Quarter  of  a  century  ago.     It  is  eighty  years 


156  THE  POLITICIAN. 

since  Esther  imprinted  her  first  kiss  on  her  new-Lorn  Labe. 
It  is  more  than  sixty  since  he  bade  farewell  to  Father  Bellamy, 
and  exchanged  the  purity  of  a  New  England  home  for  a 
career  of  selfishness  and  lust.  It  is  thirty -four  years  since  he 
canvassed  for  the  Presidency ;  it  is  twenty-six  years  since  he 
starved  in  Paris  and  lost  Theodosia.  All  is  changed !  Youth, 
vigor,  and  reputation  have  forsaken  the  unfortunate  man. 
The  wreck  is  complete,  for  how  can  one  fall  lower  than  to 
point  the  moral  of  public  reproof? 

He  is  old — and  "  the  evil  days  have  come  when  no  man  can 
say,  '  I  have  pleasure  in  them.' "  Oh !  if  there  be  a  time  when 
piety  can  be  doubly  precious,  it  is  during  old  age.  Thus  spake 
the  wise  man,  in  the  eloquence  and  pathos  of  the  closing  chap- 
ter of  Ecclesiastes.  Youth  enjoys  natural  buoyancy  and  the 
flow  of  s|)irits  arising  from  warm  blood  and  strong  hope;  but 
what  does  age  know  of  these?  Nothing,  but  a  pining  me- 
mory! With  the  relentless  march  of  Time  the  faculties 
forsake  Hhe  di^^ing  form.  We  behold  these  companions  of 
youth  now  abom  to  take  their  departure  as  it  enters  the  chill 
regions  of  senility. 

"I  am  Strength!,  I  girded  thee  many  a  year — I  bade  thee 
climb  the  mountain  and  hew  the  forest,  but  now  we  part,  sad 
though  it  be!  Look  to  thy  God!  for  even  to  old  age  he  is 
thine,  and  to  hoar  hairs  will  he  carry  thee — and  when  thy 
'flesh  and  thy  heart  failcth,  He  will  be  the  strength  of  thy 
heart  and  thy  portion  forever.'  " 

"  I  am  Joy !  I  gave  thy  veins  the  ecstatic  thrill,  and  filled 
thy  heart  with  the  delights  of  innocence — but  now,  farewell ! 
Look  to  thy  God — the  fountain  of  joys  that  cannot  perish ! " 

' '  And  I  am  Memory !  I  have  made  thee  rich  with  the 
past — I  have  garnered  precious  names  in  thy  heart — filled  it 


OLD  AGE.  157 

with  the  rich  scenery  of  bygone  hours — but  I  too  must  leave 
thee !  Look  to  thy  God !  who  hath  sworn  to  forget  thee — to 
leave  thee  never r'' 

"Without  these  holy  exercises,  which  are  far  from  being 
imaginary,  advancing  years  bring  nothing  but  sorrow. 

"  Ere  I  was  old !    Ah,  woeful  ere, 
Which  tells  me  youth's  no  longer  here ! 
0  youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet — 

'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one ; 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone. 
Thy  vesper  bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd. 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold ; 
What  new  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  hast  gone  ?  "  * 

But  the  old  age  of  the  Christian  has  not  only  its  uses  but 
its  blessings.  It  proves  God's  unchanging  faithfulness — when 
all  but  His  promises  are  exhausted;  it  provjjttie  efficacy  of 
grace  in  the  time  of  utter  feebleness;  it  de^^ij^es  the  vigor 
of  faith  and  hope,  which  only  rise  higher  amid  the  general 
shipwreck. 

"  In  age  and  feebleness  extreme, 
Who  shaU  a  helpless  worm  redeem  ? 
Jesus,  my  only  hope  thou  art ! 
Strength  of  my  failing  flesh  and  heart. 
Oh,  could  I  catch  a  smile  from  thee. 
And  drop  into  Eternity ! " 

But  the  last  days  of  Aaron  Burr  exhibited  a  sad  reverse  of 
this;  they  were  only  marked  by  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 
shorn  of  all  hope,  and  blasted  by  Infidelity.     He  dwelt  iu 

*  Coleriiljre. 


158  THE  POLITICIAN. 

the  vicinity  of  New  York,  and  his  support  was  chiefly  derived 
from  his  pension  as  Colonel  in  the  Continental  Army.  He 
had  lost  caste,  and  age  and  evil  report  had  separated  him 
from  the  sympathies  of  the  world.  His  blood  ran  in  the 
veins  of  no  one,  if  we  except  a  few  who  bore  his  name  as  a 
reproach,  and  only  the  kindness  of  a  few  faithful  kinsmen 
redeemed  him  from  utter  desolation.  Such  was  the  old  age 
of  one  who  so  early  and  so  resolutely  forsook  the  way  of 
life,  and  ever  afterward  chose  evil.  It  revealed  neither  the 
cheerfulness  which  may  light  up  the  closing  hours  of  the 
peasant,  nor  the  honor  which  should  have  crowned  the  hoary 
head  of  one,  distinguished  in  his  country's  battles.  He  had 
sown  to  the  flesh,  and  of  the  flesh  he  had  reaped  corruption. 
During  youth  and  manhood  he  had  sacrificed  friendship, 
honor,  and  confidence  to  lust;  and  age  never  yet  purged 
away  the  rottenness  of  early  licentiousness.  A  small  chest,  ^ 
filled  with  fatjfid  billets  doux,  the  memorials  of  the  almost 
countless  adulteries  and  intrigues  of  his  whole  life,  was  care- 
fully preserved  by  him,  and  the  contents  were  often  gloated 
over,  and  occasionally  exhibited  to  others. 

"  So  he  lies, 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  ever  more  deformity." 

Such  an  existence  could  have  but  few  charms,  even  for  one 
the  most  tenacious  of  life,  and  he  confessed  its  weariness. 
Indeed,  the  grave,  though  dark  and  hopeless,  offered  a  seem- 
ing escape  from  that  death  in  life  with  which  he  was  bur- 
dened. In  due  time  the  hour  came,  and  on  the  14tli  of 
September,  1836,  he  expired,  in  the  eighty-first  year  of  his 
age. 


BURIAL  OP  AN  OLD  MAN.  1^9 

The  suitable  military  honors  accompanied  his  interment, 
and  his  grave  is  next  to  those  in  which  his  parents  were  laid, 
nearly  four  score  years  before.     In  that  rustic  burial-ground 
in  Princeton  the  little  Aaron  had  rambled  during  his  boyish 
days;  perhaps,  also,  in  after  years  he  might  have  sometimes 
turned  from  the  turbid  currents  of  life  to  visit  those  honored 
tombs,  and  there  have  partially  realized  the  contrast  between 
tlie  career  of  the  fathers  and  that  of  the  son.     Perhaps,  too, 
when  galled  by  the  reproaches  of  awakening  conscience,  he 
may  have  envied  their  pure  and  happy  lives,  and  their  still 
happier  rest.* 

"  0 !  were  my  Leapt  as  free  and  still 
From  pangs  that  burn  and  blasts  that  chill, 
And  shafts  that  pay  joy's  spendthrift  thrill 
With  bitter  usury," 

Our  task  is  done.  The  character  of  Burr  has  been  a  favo- 
rite theme  with  reviewers  and  paragraphisfe|  but  we  have 
considered  it  simply  as  illustrative  of  Infidelfy  in  public  and 
political  life.  Contempt  for  Christianity  was  so  boldly 
stamped  upon  his  long  career,  that  while  the  political  history 
of  America  records  the  names  of  others  noted  for  scepticism, 
his  will  always  claim  an  unenviable  prominence. 

As  such  an  illustration  his  example  is  too  important  to  be 

*  Tlie  following  terrible  sketch  which  Byron  drew— no  doubt  from  his 
own  experience— is  a  fitting  illustration  of  Burr's  latter  days: 
"  He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe ; 
Nothing  more  remained  below, 
But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days — 
A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise — 
A  heart  which  shunned  itself,  and  yet, 
That  v)Ould  not  yield,  nor  could  forgeC 


100 


THE  POLITICIAN. 


overlooked  by  the  teacher  of  morals,  and  in  this  aspect  it  is 
now  presented  to  the  reader.  It  offers  an  instructive  contrast  to 
those  of  the  pious  and  high-minded  Jay,  his  cotemporary,  and 
Quincy  Adams,  the  colossus  of  a  later  day — both  of  whom, 
liad  he  possessed  their  tone  and  purity,  Burr  might  have  ap- 
proached— we  had  almost  said,  equalled.  But  the  character 
which  he  has  bequeathed  to  America  compares  with  theirs 
only  as  the  reptile-haunted  ruin  compares  with  some  resplen- 
dent temple.  And  turning  from  him  to  that  Holy  Book 
which  he  contemned,  we  read  the  lesson  which  he  so  terribly 
illustrated,  "  HE  THAT  PURSUETH  EVIL,  PURSU- 
ETII  IT  TO  HIS  OWN  DEATH." 

Ushered  into  existence  amid  the  prayers  of  saints,  and 
surrounded  by  the  halo  of  ancestral  piety,  he  proves  the 
power  of  an  evil  life,  not  only  to  neutralize  such  influences, 
but  to  drive  at  last  the  bark,  whose  early  voyage  was  radiant 
with  promise,  into  forlorn  and  hopeless  shipwreck. 

^^  "  There  is 

Guilt  too  enormous  to  be  duly  punished, 
Save  by  increase  of  guilt :  the  powers  of  evil 
Are  jealous  claimants.     Guilt,  too,  hath  its  ordeal, 
And  Hell  its  own  probation." 

*  Proverbs,  11-19. 


BOOK  FOURTH. 


THE    EEFORMER. 

I 


One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth, 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth  ; 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison, 
"Withering  up  truth,  peace  and  piety. 

^  *  tf  ^  )lt  ^  ¥t 

Mark  that  outcry  of  despair— 
'  Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost, 
Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled," 

Shelley. — "  Prometheus  Unbound." 

"I     AM     prepared    to     EXPECT    THAT    ON    THE    EFFORTS    WHICH    ARE    NOW 

making  in  the  world  to  regenerate  our  species  without  religion,  god 
will  affix  the  stamp  of  a  solemn  and  impressive  mockery." 

Chalmers, 


THE    REFORMER. 


THAT  was  a  weird  scene  in  necrology  which,  on  the 
sixteenth  day  of  August,  1822,  concluded  the  brief 
career  of  erring  and  unfortunate  genius.  It  would  have 
been  a  weird  scene  anywhere,  and  under  any  circumstances; 
how  much  more  when  enacted  on  the  lonely  and  desolate 
beach — where,  hour  after  hour,  the  funeral  pile  shot  up  its 
lliekering  blaze,  while  masses  of  smoke,  laden  with  perfume 
and  frankincense,  cast  their  broad  shadow  on  the  sand  and  on 
the  wave? 

It  was  the  funeral  pile  of  a  worshipper  of  Nature,  and  she, 
as  though  to  sympathise,  had  surrounded  it  with  features  of 
exquisite  beauty,  as  well  as  with  the  sublimity  of  desolation, 

"  Earth,  ocean,  air — beloved  brotherhood," 

which  he  had  so  often  apostrophised,  when  communing  with 
the  elements — all  united  in  loveliness,  as  this  last  rite  was 
performed  in  behalf  of  their  bard.  In  front  the  Mediterra- 
nean spread  its  calm   and  resplendent  bosom,  dotted  with 


164  THE  REFORMER. 

sunny  islands.     Its  waves,  so  lately  lashed  by  the  fatal  tem- 
pest, now 

"  Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  mangled  prey, 
As  panthers  sleep."  * 

On  the  right  extended  the  magnificent  Bay  of  Spezzia  while 
far  to  the  left  the  towers  and  spires  of  Leghorn  glistened 
in  the  sun.  The  sombre  majesty  of  the  Appenines,  frown- 
ing in  the  rear,  hushed  the  wild  joy  of  nature's  beauty,  and 
with  the  clumps  of  gnarled  and  twisted  trees  that  writhed  on 
the  monotonous  beach,  added  a  dreary  but  congenial  tone. 

A  band  of  Italian  officials  surrounded  the  blazing  pile,  alike 
ignorant  and  careless  as  to  the  mortality  which  fed  its  flame, 
and  only  intent  upon  the  duties  of  the  Quarantine;  but  a  fvw 
earnest  ones,  from  a  far-distant  land,  communed  in  pensive 
silence  on  the  untimely  fate  of  their  countryman — so  young, 
so  gifted,  and  so  unfortunate.  One  of  this  number  was 
Trelawny,  who  has  furnished  the  best  description  of  tlie 
solemn  rite.  Another  was  Captain  Shenly.  Leigh  Hunt 
viewed  the  scene  from  a  carriage — but  nearer  by  stood  Byron, 
in  thoughtful  silence,  as  though  rapt  by  the  strange  and 
bewildering  spectacle.  Such  an  one,  indeed,  it  must  liave 
held  by  a  strong  fascination.  It  was  a  revival  of  the  classic 
and  of  the  antique.     The  rainbow-colored  blaze 

"  Gracefully  curled  up, 

i- 

'  As  if  from  offered  flowers,  that  to  the  flame 

Gave  all  their  beauty." 

And  thus,  amid  the  perfume  of  frankincense,  and  spicory, 
and  scented  fire,  was  momently  consuming  one  whom  lie 

*  Shelley.     Epistle  to  Mrs.  Gisborne. 


PHILOSOPHY  AND  REASON.  165 

loved — if  love  could  dwell  in  a  soul  so  cold  and  so  selfish  as 
his.  It  was  also  that  of  one  who  with  him  had  clomb  the 
Alps,  and  skimmed  the  surface  of  Leman  and  Constance,  and 
who  had  breathed  the  same  spirit  of  Poetry  and  Atheism. 

We  therefore  cannot  wonder  that  the  scene  ahsorbed  him 
with  an  overcoming  interest,  and  perhaps  with  prophetic 
doom,  since  the  untimely  death  of  his  friend  may  have  cast 
upon  him  its  boding  shadow.  Within  two  years,  indeed, 
there  was  borne  over  those  same  Mediterranean  waters  a 
coffined  corpse,  seelcing  rest  in  its  ancestral  tomb  at  New- 
stead  Abbey;  and  these  two,  linked  in  life  by  the  graces  and 
miseries  of  genius,  met  once  more  in  reunion  far  different 
from  those  erst  of  Pisa,  or  the  Alps,  or  even  here,  on  the 
desolate  beach  at  Lerici.  But  from  that  group  of  careless 
officials  and  pensive  exiles  now  surrounding  the  funeral  pile, 
we  turn  to  scenes  which  marked  the  earlier  hours  of  him  who 
thus  returns — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust. 

In  that  bloody  spasm  of  social  forces — the  French  Revolu- 
tion— the  energies  of  a  nation  burst  forth  under  the  patronage 
of  Infidelity.  Philosophy  and  Reason  were  the  watchwords 
of  the  founders  of  the  new  republic.  Religion  having  been, 
as  it  was  supposed,  utterly  exploded,  the  new  princiijle,  so 
loudly  vaunted,  could  suffer  from  no  rival.  If  ever  an  Athe- 
istic philosophy  could  have  aided  in  the  reconstruction  of 
society,  or  have  availed  for  government,  this  must  have  been 
the  time — It  was  peculiarly  her  hour  of  test  and  demonstra- 
tion. Paris  was  full  of  philosophers,  from  Paine  and  Robes- 
pierre, down  to  the  vilest  Sans-culotte,  and  their  schemes  and 
opinions  were  paraded  with  all  the  assumed  dignity  of  a 
,  celestial  mission.  Nor  was  their  progress  confined  to  France. 
A  channel  of  but  twenty  miles  in  breadth  could  ofier  but  a 


IGo  THE  REFORMER. 

slenrler  barrier  to  influences  which  seemed  to  fly  as  upon  the 
wings  of  the  wind.  Hence  England,  amid  all  her  loyalty  and 
staid  conservatism,  soon  reechoed  the  popular  cry  whicli 
exalted  a  vain  philosophy  above  that  piety  to  which  she 
owed  her  greatness,  and  she  soon  beheld  a  generation  of 
beardless  propagandists,  as  defiant  in  their  Atheism  as  the 
ribald  blasphemers  of  Paris.  The  reconstruction  of  society 
and  of  government  was  discussed  as  well  in  pot-houses  as  in 
universities,  and  the  removal  of  social  evils,  so  long  a  hope- 
less problem,  seemed  approaching  its  solution.  Pantisocra- 
cies  and  similar  schemes  became  popular,  and,  as  it  was 
supposed,  practicable,  for  Christianity  was  no  longer  to 
enchain  the  mind,  nor  the  Bible  to  oppose  human  progress. 
The  world  was  soon  to  be  restored  to  peace  and  happiness, 
and  rapt  with  this  grand  idea  the  student  philosophised  in  the 
alcove — the  poet  philosophised  in  his  attic — while  in  the  tap- 
room were  heard  the  discussions  of 

"Smith,  cobbler,  joiner — he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough — all  loud  alike, 
All  learned,  and  all  drunk." 

Yet,  after  all,  this  happy  consummation  was  only  to  be 
nttained  through  conflict,  and  hence  mankind  was  summoned 
to  that  struggle  which  should  end  in  the  destruction  of  kings, 
courts,  priests  and  demagogues,  as  well  as  in  the  removal  of 
poverty  and  sorrow. 

Such  were  the  schemes  which  agitated  England  at  the 
commencement  of  the  present  century;  yet,  futile  as  they 
proved  at  last,  who  shall  say  that  their  object  was  not  worthy 
(jf  the  most  earnest  eflbrt,  since  for  ages  man  had  felt  the 
heel  of  oppression,  and  the  masses  had  groaned  in  ignorance 


BATTLE  WITH  SIN.  107 

and  in  serfdom.  And  yet  we  sigh  to  tliink  that  the  niiylity 
question  fell  into  the  hands  of  those  whose  strongest  argu- 
ments only  exhibit  invincible  ignorance.  Alas,  Avhat  could  be 
.expected  of  the  blind?  They  had  turned  the  back  on  that 
true  light  which  shone  from  the  Scriptures,  and  now,  in 
doubt  and  confusion,  they  ground  in  the  prison-house,  like 
chained  and  darkened  Samson. 

But  this  capital  mistake  was  not  owing  to  the  want  of  ex- 
ample and  illustration.  England  had  already  enjoyed  the 
labors  of  some  of  the  most  gifted  and  successful  of  uninspired 
reformers.  Whitefield — the  Wesleys,  and  their  fellow-laboT 
rers,  had  evangelized  the  masses.  Howard,  the  calm,  the 
devoted,  and  the  sublime,  whose  hoary  hairs  had  not  abated 
the  ardor  of  his  sympathies,  had  remodelled  her  prison  sys- 
tem— had  brought  comfort  to  the  debtor  and  to  the  felon, 
and  at  last,  while  in  pursuit  of  a  remedy  for  the  plague,  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  its  ravages,  and  filled  an  humble  grave  in 
the  distant  Crimea.  These  men  had  been  arrayed  against 
the  worst  forms  of  tyranny.  They  had  grappled  with  SIN 
even  in  its  most  hideous  shapes,  and  they  had  demonstrated 
that  theirs  was  the  only  specific  for  that  dread  malady. 
Indeed,  in  their  hands  it  had  wrought  wonders.  It  had 
elevated  a  stolid  and  brutish  peasantry  to  the  rank  of  Christ- 
ianity; it  had  renewed  the  brotherhood  of  the  race,  and 
inspired  it  with  benevolence;  and  it  was  quietly  accomplish- 
ing its  benignant  mission  when,  with  many  a  flourish  of 
trumpets,  the  reign  of  an  untried  and  boastful  philosophy  was 
suddenly  inaugurated.  Modern  Reform  is  the  offspring  of  that 
philosophy — born  amid  the  convulsions  of  the  French  revo- 
lution, and  fed  upon  the  wild  theories  of  rhapsodists. 

While  the  long-continued  paroxysm  was  being  wrought  up 


168  THE  REFORMER. 

to  a  fearful  pitch,  and  while  storm  clouds  were  gathering 
over  ill-fated  Paris,  the  first  wail  of  the  infant  Shelley  was 
heard  in  the  family  seat  in  Sussex.  It  would  seem  that  the 
dreamy  and  delusive  ethics  of  the  day  breathed  upon  the 
uew-box'n  babe  of  Field  Place  a  bewildering  inspiration.  Its 
ancestry  was  noble,  and  it  could  boast  even  the  name  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney;  but  the  loftier  stamp  of  the  youthful  mind 
gradually  developed  in  greatness  transcending  that  of  blood. 
Indeed,  the  daily  life  of  the  young  aristocrat  seemed  to  be 
permeated  by  a  tender  sympathy  with  the  distressed.  As 
though  indifferent  to  the  accidents  of  high  birth  and  the 
blandishments  of  pride,  he  appears  willing  to  share  the  bur- 
den of  the  heavy-laden,  and  asks  only  the  privilege  of 
redressing  wrongs.  Such  was  the  promise,  soon  to  be  blasted 
by  ruthless  unbelief;  but  now  it  buds  before  us,  unconscious 
of  coming  ruin,  and  we,  who  see  no  danger  nigh,  hail  that 
life  of  worthy  deeds  which  opens  before  the  noble  boy. 

The  exercises  of  his  soul,  at  once  high  toned  and  chivalrous, 
are  finely  expressed  in  a  few  stanzas  from  the  Revolt  of 
Islam : 

"Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend,  when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  tliis  world  from  youth  did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 

My  spirit's  sleep.     A  fresh  May  dawn  it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  ghttering  grass, 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why ;  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school  room  voices  that,  alas! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  the  world  of  woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

"And  then  1  ci:isi)cd  my  hands  and  looked  around — 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Wliiili  iKMiiiil  I  heir  warm  drops  on  the  siinny  ground — 
So  without  shame  I  spoke — '  I  w  ill  be  wise, 


GLEAM  OF  TRUE  NOBILITY.  169 

And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 

Such  power;  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannise, 

Without  reproach  or  check.'     I  then  controlled 
My  tears — my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and  bold. 

"  And  from  that  hour  did  I,  with  earnest  thought, 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul,  before 

It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind. 
Thus  hope  and  power  were  strengthened  more  and  more 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness — a  thirst  with  which  I  pined." 

These  lines  command  our  admiration,  for  where  shall  we 
find  true  greatness  if  it  be  not  in  the  sacrifice  of  self  upon 
the  altar  of  sympathy,  and  in  strong  will  to  vindicate  the 
oppressed?  Such  traits  indeed  marl^ed  Shelley,  not  only  in 
boyhood,  but  in  some  degree  through  life,  and  therefore  one 
cannot  but  the  more  deeply  mourn  to  see  him  early  blighted 
by  the  chill  conventionalities  of  a  heartless  society.  Under 
the  genial  influence  of  piety  his  character  might  have  deve- 
loped in  a  philanthropy  hardly  less  than  that  which  has 
consecrated  the  name  of  Howard.  Indeed  the  great  gulf 
which  separates  two  men,  who  each  sought  the  welfare  of 
their  race,  but  whose  influences  diflfer,  as  balm  from  poison, 
is  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  one  was  a; 
earnest  Christian — the  other  was  as  zealous  in  his  Infidelity. 
With  striking  truthfulness  is  the  character  of  the  latter  set  ofl^ 
in  his  own  lines:* 

" '  Is  it  not  strange,  Isabel,'  said  the  youth, 
'I  never  saw  the  sun?'" 

*  Sunset.  o 


170  TEE  REFORMER. 

In  his  tenth  year,  after  suitable  preparation,  Shelley  en- 
tered a  school,  whose  leading  features  have  made  Sion  House 
synonymous  with  tyranny.  It  was  a  place  to  better  learn 
lessons  of  sympathy  and  indignation  than  those  of  the  classic 
page,  as  day  after  day  he  witnessed  the  outrages  of  "fagging" 
and  other  abuses  which  happily  have  never  cursed  American 
schools.  And  his  contempt  for  the  institution  which  thus 
held  him  in  durance  is  thus  expressed  in  the  verses  already 
quoted: 

"Nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
Cared  I  to  learn." 

His  leisure  was  mainly  devoted  to  the  perusal  of  the  Ead- 
cliffe  school  of  romance — and  his  youthful  mind  became 
subject  to  a  habit  of  waking  dreams,  which  held  him  with 
such  power  that  often  it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  spell  was 
broken.  When  brought  back  from  such  vagaries  his  eyes 
^\■ould  flash — his  lips  would  quiver — his  voice  would  be  tre- 
mulous with  emotion,  and  a  species  of  ecstacy  would  so 
overcome  him,  that  his  speech  would  be  more  like  that  of  a 
spirit,  or  an  angel,  than  of  a  human  being.  This  remarkable 
idiosyncrasy  followed  him  through  life. 

The  hated  school  was  in  due  time  exchaniied  for  the  halls 
and  groves  of  Eton,  where  two  years  were  given  to  study. 
But  romance  gradually  wove  its  fliscinations  about  the  young 
enthusiast,  until  at  the  age  of  seventeen  his  reveries  have 
found  life  upon  the  printed  page.  The  pair  of  novels  which 
now  sprung  from  his  heated  brain,  like  Byfon's  maiden 
volume,  little  indicate  their  author's  genius,  and  the  occa- 
sional poems  by  which  they  are  graced  may  only  be  noticed 
as  displaying  the  versification  of  the  subsequent  Queen 
Mub, 


COMMENCES  AT  OXFORD.  171 

In  1810  the  self-conscious  Etonian  entered  University  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  He  was  but  eighteen,  which  was  much  below 
the  average  age  of  beginners,  while  in  addition  to  his  youth 
his  figure  was  so  slender  and  delicate  that  he  might  have  been 
taken  merely  for  a  precocious  boy.  But  that  slim  and  youth- 
ful stranger,  in  whom  the  indolent  Oxonian  sees  but  a  fresh 
butt  for  his  vulgar  wit,  is  destined  to  a  career  which  shall 
soon  change  contempt  to  surprise;  and  brief  as  that  career 
may  be,  it  shall  ere  it  close,  shake  Oxford  to  its  centre.  One 
of  his  more  intimate  associates,  Mr.  Hogg,  has  furnished 
some  interesting  sketches,  which  we  now  quote,  in  illustration 
of  this  eventful  period. 

"He  was  the  sum  of  many  contradictions.  His  figure  was 
slight  and  fragile,  yet  his  bones  and  joints  were  large  and 
strong.  He  was  tall,  but  he  stooped  so  much  as  to  appear 
low  of  stature.  His  clothes  were  expensive,  but  they  were 
tumbled,  rumpled  and  unbrushed.  His  complexion  was 
delicate — almost  feminine,  and  of  the  purest  red  and  white. 
His  face  and  whole  features,  and  particularly  his  head,  were 
unusually  small;  yet  the  last  appeared  of  remarkable  bulk,  for 
his  hair  was  long  and  bushy.  In  the  agony  of  declamation 
he  often  rubbed  it  fiercely  with  his  hands,  so  that  it  was 
singularly  wild  and  rough.  His  features  breathed  enthusiasm 
and  intelligence,  that  I  never  met  in  any  other  countenance. 
Nor  was  the  moral  expression  less  beautiful  than  the  intel- 
lectual— for  there  was  a  softness,  a  delicacy,  a  gentleness,  and 
especially  (though  this  will  surprise  some)  that  air  of  pro- 
f  )uiid  religious  veneration  which  characterizes  the  best  works 
of  the  great  masters.  'This  is  a  fine  fellow,'  said  I  to  myself, 
'  but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  endure  his  voice — it  would  kill 
me;  what  a  pity  it  is!'     The  voice,  indeed,  was  excruciating. 


172  THE  REFORMER. 

It  was  intolerably  shrill,  harsh,  and  discordant,  and  of  the 
most  cruel  intension — it  even  excoriated  the  ears." 

The  reveries  of  his  earlier  days  invaded  the  student  life 
of  Oxford;  but  they  had  abandoned  romance  for  the  loftier 
pursuit  of  Philosophy.  His  early  inkling  for  Eeform  now 
developed  rapidly,  and  began  to  assume  the  character  of  a 
passion,  but  alas !  he  commenced  his  pursuit  of  truth  with  an 
extinguished  torch.  A  solution  of  life's  great  problem  was 
now  to  be  attempted,  with  Hume's  Essays  as  his  text,  and 
with  Atheism  as  his  word  of  hope.  Thus  has  error  mastered 
the  most  earnest  and  true  hearted  of  Oxonians,  and  terribly 
will  error  finish  its  work.  His  early  speculations  are  of  an 
amusing  as  well  as  of  an  earnest  character,  and  one  cannot 
but  smile  at  the  account  which  Hogg  furnishes  of  the  reforms 
which  are  to  be  wrought  by  chemistry.  He  even  anticipated 
from  the  triumphs  of  science  the  release  of  the  laboring 
classes  from  their  unceasing  toil.  "By  a  chemical  agency 
man  may  effect  vast  changes,  and  even  transmute  a  barren 
waste  into  a  region  of  plenty.  Thus,  as  water  is  made  of 
combined  gases,  why  might  it  not  be  manufactured  by  a 
scientific  process,  and  thus  transform  the  deserts  of  Africa 
into  verdant  fields'?  So  too,  heat  might  be  generated,  and 
cold  climates  rendered  genial  and  productive.  What  a 
mighty  instrument  might  electricity  become — and  the  bal- 
loon! could  not  aeronauts  be  despatched  on  a  voyage  of 
exploration  to  Africa,  whose  entire  continent  might  be  ex- 
amined in  a  few  weeks?  The  shadow  of  the  first  balloon 
would  virtually  emancipate  every  slave  in  that  unhappy 
country." 

Hogg  visited  Shelley's  rooms  and  found  them  as  oddly 
furnished  as  was  the  mind  of  their  occupant.     "Every  thing 


MISHAPS  OF  A  CHEMIST. 


1T3 


new  and  costly,  but  lying  in  inextricable  confusion:  books, 
boots,  philosophical  instruments,  money,  clothes,  all  scattered 
on  the  floor*  The  carpet  well  stained  by  acids  bore  witness 
to  the  pursuit  of  chemistry,  and  a  tongs  still  supported  a 
retort  over  an  Argand  lamp."  While  welcoming  his  friend 
the  liquor  boiled  over  and  filled  the  room  with  a  "  fiendish 
smell."  Hogg  was  constrained  to  ply  the  galvanic  battery  till 
Shelley  was  charged  with  the  fluid,  and  his  long  wild  locks 
bristled  fiercely.  Hogg  proceeds  with  the  pleasant  sketch 
of  his  classmate,  and  developes  his  plans  of  reforming  man- 
kind. One  of  their  principal  features  was  abstinence  from 
animal  food.      The  restoration  of   peace,  order  and   unity 

*  "  Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist, 
Would  think  I  were  a  miglity  mechanist. 
****** 

Upon  the  table  , 

More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than  I  am  able 
To  catalogize  in  this  verse  of  mine. 
****** 

Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations,  much  perplext 
With  steamboats,  frigates,  and  macliinery  quaint. 
Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint ; 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,  for  plans  nautical  and  statical ; 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  green  broken  glass, 
With  ink  in  it ;  a  China  cup  that  was. 
****** 

Near  that  a  dusty  paint-box,  some  old  hooks, 
A  half-burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three  books. 
Where  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms. 
To  great  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and  Sims — 
Lie  heaped  in  their  harmonious  disarray." 

Shelley — (Epistle  to  Mrs.  Gisborne.) 


174  TUE  REFORMER. 

would  l»e  hastened  by  a  general  adoption  of  vegetable  diet. 
On  this  point  the  young  Oxonian  has  been  closely  followed 
by  other  reformers.  In  the  notes  to  Queen  Mab  the  subj«^ct 
is  discussed  at  much  length  in  language,  a  part  of  which  we 
quote:  "I  hold  that  the  depravity  of  the  physical  and  moral 
nature  of  man  originated  in  his  unnatural  habits  of  life.  *  *  * 
The  allegory  of  Adam  and  Eve  eating  of  the  tree  of  evil,  and 
entailing  on  their  posterity  the  wrath  of  God,  admits  of  no 
other  explanation  than  the  disease  and  crime  that  have  flowed 
from  unnatural  diet.  *  *  *  Prometheus,  who  represents  the 
human  race,  effected  some  great  change  in  the  condition  of  liis 
nature,  and  applied  fire  to  culinary  purposes,  thus  inventing 
an  expedient  for  screening  from  his  disgust  the  horrors  of  the 
shambles;  from  this  moment  his  vitals  were  devoured  by 
the  vulture  of  disease.  *  *  *  It  is  only  by  softening  and  dis- 
guising dead  flesh  by  culinary  preparation  that  it  is  rendered 
susceptible  of  mastication  or  digestion,  so  that  the  sight  of  its 
bloody  juices  and  raw  horror  does  not  excite  intolerable 
horror  and  disgust.  Let  the  advocate  for  animal  food  force 
himself  to  a  decisive  experiment  of  its  fitness,  and  as  Plutarch 
recommends,  tear  a  living  lamb  with  his  teeth,  and  plunging 
his  head  into  its  vitals,  slake  his  thirst  with  the  streaming 
blood.  *  *  *  Who  will  assert  that  had  the  populace  of  Paris 
sfitisfied  their  hunger  at  the  ever  furnished  table  of  vegetable 
nature,  it  would  have  lent  its  brutal  suffrage  to  the  pro- 
scription list  of  Robespierre?"  It  is  a  redeeming  feature 
in  this  absurd  scheme,  that  spirituous  liquors  were  equally  for- 
bidden; but  the  main  strength  of  the  argument  lay  against 
the  use  of  meats. 

We  close  our  extracts  with  the  following  picture  of  a  happy 
abstinent:  "Above  all  he  will  acquire  an  easiness  of  breathing, 


VEGETABLE    DIET.  175 

by  which  such  exertion  is  performed  with  a  remarkable 
exemption  frcn  that  painful  and  difficult  panting,  now  felt 
by  almost  every  one  after  hastily  climbing  an  ordinary 
mountain.  He  will  be  equally  capable  of  bodily  exertion,  or 
mental  application,  after,  as  before  his  simple  meal.  He  will 
feel  none  of  the  narcotic  effect  of  ordinary  diet.  Irritability, 
the  direct  consequence  of  exhausting  stimuli,  would  yield  to 
the  power  of  natural  and  tranquil  impulses.  He  will  no 
longer  pine  under  the  lethargy  of  ennui,  that  unconquerable 
weariness  of  life,  more  to  be  dreaded  than  death  itself.  He 
will  escape  the  epidemic  madness  which  broods  over  its  own 
injurious  notions  of  the  Deity  and  realizes  the  hell  that 
priests  and  beldames  feign." 

With  such  ardent  views  it  is  not  surprising  to  read  Hogg's 
statement  that  "bread  was  his  chief  food,  to  which  he  some- 
times added  raisins-  —exhibiting  a  schoolboy's  taste  for  fruit, 
gingerbread,  sugar  and  honey."  And  one  is  not  surprised  to 
learn  that  whatever  were  its  moral  effects,  this  low  diet  did 
not  fail  to  impair  the  enthusiast's  health.  But  while  he  is 
thus  musing  in  the  groves,  or  by  the  streams  of  quiet  Oxford, 
dreaming  of  pre-existence,  Pythagoreanism,  abstinence  and 
reform,  the  University  is  suddenly  electrified  by  his  expulsion, 
and  the  young  philosopher  becomes  an  object  of  public 
sympathy  or  dread.  The  antecedents  of  this  aflair  arc 
matters  of  controversy,  and  the  two  statements  mtide  by 
men  of  character  are  directly  in  conflict.  Hogg,  who  must 
be  considered  reliable,  relates  that  Shelley,  who  had  become 
a  disciple  of  Hume,  drew  up  a  brief  statement  or  syllabus  of 
his  doctrines,  adding  his  own  inferences,  and  affixing  to  the 
whole  the  nmthematical  Q.  E.  D.  This  he  had  printed  and 
circulated  in  every  direction — "  it  was,"  says  Hogg,  "  a  small 


176  THE  REFORMER. 

pill,  but  worked  powerfully."  He  would  enclose  a  copy  in  a 
letter  to  some  individual,  observing  that  he  had  met  this 
little  tract  accidentally,  and  that  unhappily  it  seemed  to  him 
quite  unanswerable.  If  an  answer  were  returned  to  any  of 
these  mischievous  messages,  it  was  sure  to  receive  a  reply  of 
fierce  argument — and  thus  the  boy  Infidel  was  discharging 
his  shafts  under  the  guise  of  an  enquirer  after  truth. 
*  The  tract  was  entitled  "The  Necessity  of  Atheism."  The 
notice  it  attracted  and  the  important  results  which  followed, 
are  chronicled  by  Hogg,  who  states  that  he  went  to  Shelley's 
rooms  one  fine  spring  morning  in  1811.  Shelley  was  absent, 
but  soon  rushed  into  the  room,  greatly  agitated.  "I  am 
expelled,"  he  exclaimed,  and  added,  "I  was  sent  for,  a  few 
moments  ago,  to  the  common  room  and  there  found  our 
master  and  two  or  three  of  the  fellows.  The  master  pro- 
duced a  copy  of  the  syllabus  and  asked  me  if  I  were  the 
author."  Shelley  refused  to  answer — the  question  was  re- 
peated and  Shelley  again  refused,  insisting  on  the  unfairness 
of  the  interrogation,  and  demanding  witnesses  to  sustain  the 
charge  urged  against  him.  The  master  then  said,  "you  are 
expelled,  and  I  desire  that  you  quit  the  college  early  to- 
morrow morning,  at  latest."  On  this,  one  of  the  fellows 
handed  Shelley  a  paper,  which  he  discovered  to  be  a  regular 
sentence  of  expulsion.  One  of  his  friends  the  next  day 
addressed  the  master  and  the  fellows,  soliciting  a  reconsider- 
ation— but  this  note  only  subjected  its  author  to  a  similar 
fate,  for  being  viewed  as  an  accomplice  rather  than  an  advo- 
cate, he  was  most  unjustly  expelled  also. 

On  the  other  hand,  De  Quincy  gives  a  very  different 
account,  and  states  that  Shelley  "put  his  name  .and  that  of 
his  college  on  the  offending  publication  (which  we  heartily 


TURNS  ATHEIST  AND  IS  EXPELLED.  1T7 

disbelieve).  The  heads  of  colleges  felt  a  disagreable  neces- 
sity for  an  extra  meeting.  There  are  in  Oxford  five-and- 
twenty  colleges,  to  say  nothing  of  halls.  They  met — th^^ 
greater  part  were  for  mercy.  The  pamphlet  was  not  ad- 
dressed to  them.  They  were  not  officially  bound  to  have 
any  knowledge  of  it,  and  they  determined  not  to  proceed  in 
the  matter.  Shelley,  on  hearing  this,  determined  to  force  it 
upon  them,  and  sent  his  pamphlet  with  five-and-twenty  sepa- 
rate letters  to  the  five-and-twenty  heads  of  the  Oxford  hydra. 
The  many-headed  monster  waxed  wroth,  and  the  philosopher 
was  expelled." 

It  is  possible  that  this  contradiction  may  be  explained  by 
referring  the  one  statement  to  the  action  of  one  college — the 
other  to  that  of  the  University.  But  whichever  of  these 
statements  may  be  correct,  it  is  evident  that  Oxford  could 
have  done  no  less  than  expel  one  who  not  only  contemned 
the  national  faith,  but  stood  defiant  in  Atheism,  even  in  her 
consecrated  halls,  and  made  them  an  arsenal  for  his  poisoned 
arrows.  Common  sense  would  have  forecast  a  result  so 
inevitable,  and  admitted  the  indignant  University  to  some 
degree  of  justification;  but  Shelley  seems  to  have  vie.M'ed 
himself  as  a  martyr  to  the  truth,  and  he  retired  from 
Oxford  with  lofty  indignation.  Expelled  the  University — 
alienated  from  his  home — and  subjected  to  the  displeasure  of 
a  disappointed  father,  the  uniortunate  youth  took  lodgings  in 
London.  His  sisters,  who  were  then  attending  school  near 
the  metropolis,  ministered  affectionately  to  his  wants,  and 
divided  with  him  their  little  allowance  of  pocket  money. 
This  was  often  sent  by  the  hands  of  a  fellow  scholar,  whose 
parents  lived  in  the  city,  and  whose  occasional  errands  to  tlie 
poor  and  lonely  student,  were  like  angels'  visits.  Shelley  in 
Iris    solitude    longed   for    sympathy,    and    the    fair    almoner 


178  THE  REFORMER. 

opened  her  heart  to  his  hopes  and  to  his  schemes.  Their 
fondness  ripened,  as  he  subsequently  visited  her  at  her  father's, 
and  before  the  ardent  eye  of  hope  all  obstacles  to  their  union 
vanished  as  quickly  as  had  the  evidence  of  Christianity  befoi-e 
the  sophistry  of  Hume.  But  though  thus  united  by  affection, 
the  social  distinctions  of  England  opened  a  vast  gulf  between 
them.  The  lover  of  nineteen  was  a  scion  of  haughty  aristoc- 
racy, wholly  dependent  upon  a  father,  who  had  warned  him 
against  the  unpardonable  offence  of  a  mesalliance,  while  on 
the  other  hand,  Harriet  Westbrooke  was  but  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
whose  plebeian  birth  could  not  escape  the  scorn  of  the  high- 
born house  of  Shelley.  These  difticulties  were  avoided  or 
delayed  by  an  elopement,  and  at  Gretna  Green  their  plighted 
vows  were  consummated,  with  burning  words  and  still  more 
burning  thoughts. 

"We'll  live  together,  like  two  neighboring  vines, 
Circling  our  souls  and  loves  in  one  another ; 
We'll  spring  together,  and  we'll  bear  one  fruit — 
One  joy  shall  make  us  smile,  and  one  grief  mourn ; 
One  age  go  with  us,  and  one  hour  of  death 
Shall  close  our  eyes,  and  one  grave  make  us  happy." 

Such  were  the  golden  hopes  that  seemed  to  hover  above 
the  cottage  which  amid  the  sweet  scenery  of  Keswick,  wel- 
comed the  successful  lovers.  The  ill-starred  union  certainly 
began  in  peace,  and  under  proper  influences  might  have  been 
exempt  from  all  but  the  ordinary  woes  of  life.  The  relenting 
father  supplied  their  needs,  while  De  Quincy  and  South<'y 
gave  an  intellectual  tone  to  the  little  circle  of  society.  But 
they  were  unhappy — one  cannot  wonder  at  this,  considering 
their  mutual  inexperience;  but  might  we  not  add  the  ques- 
tion— w'hen  was  Atheism  ever  congenial  to  domestic  peace? 
The  young  philosopher,  in  his  search  for  reforms,  had  not 


ATTEMPTS  TO  REFORM  IRELAND. 


179 


found  one  for  the  heart.  In  addition  to  this,  their  life  \\  as 
embittered  by  jealousies  which  sprang  up  concerning  their 
literary  neighbors,  and  in  a  short  time  the  restless  pair  for- 
sook Keswick  for  an  abode  in  Ireland.  Shelley  had  yearned 
over  that  imfortunate  island,  and  in  the  ardor  of  his  sympathy 
had  supposed  himself  called  to  her  aid.  Hence,  previous  to 
his  arrival,  he  had  prej)ared  a  pamphlet,  in  which  her  diffi- 
culties were  discussed,  and  which  was  subsequently  distributed, 
in  order  to  arouse  her  citizens.  Burning  with  a  noble  desire 
to  reform  mankind,  he  had,  to  quote  his  own  language, 
"chosen  Ireland  as  a  theatre — the  widest  and  fairest  for  the 
operations  ot  the  determined  friends  of  religious  and  political 
freedom."  The  addresses  which  the  youthful  reformer  de- 
livered in  Dublin  were  chiefly  notable  for  the  discordant 
scream  of  their  utterance.  His  schemes  were  crude  and  im- 
practicable— but  his  confidence  in  their  success  was  inversely 
proportioned  to  their  wisdom,  and  a  brief  stay  in  Dublin 
enabled  him,  as  he  supposed,  to  fully  learn  the  state  of  the 
public  mind.  The  fruit  of  his  mission  was  a  recommendation 
of  "an  association  for  the  purpose  of  restoring  Ireland  to 
the  prosperity  she  enjoyed  before  the  union." 

One  cannot  but  smile  at  the  conceit  which  marks  this  mis- 
sion, but  we  do  not  wonder  that  he  Avho  had  accepted  Hume's 
sophistry  as  superior  to  an  ancient  and  genial  piety,  should 
leap  Avith  equal  rapidity  to  conclusions  nearly  as  erroneous. 
Having,  after  this  brief  sojourn  in  tlie  capital,  mastered  the 
woes  and  cure  of  Ireland,  he  was  no  doubt  surprised  that  the 
nation  yielded  no  response;  baflled  thus  in  his  great  scheme, 
the  enthusiast  speedily  embarked  for  the  Isle  of  Man,  and 
shortly  afterwards  we  trace  him  to  a  residence  in  Wales. 

It  was  a  period  of  intense  mental  excitement,  and  schemes 
of  reform,   intermixed   with   poetic   ecstacy,   fused   all   the 


180  THE  EEFOEMER. 

energies  of  his  mind,  until  the  calm  scenery  of  his  sequestered 
abode  was  in  strange  contrast  with  his  conflicts.  Without 
any  farther  subjective  probing,  a  sufficient  reason  for  tliis 
miserable  unrest  might  be  found  in  that  warfare  which  he  had 
commenced  on  Christianity.  He  could  not  boast  that  cold 
apathy  which  sheltered  Hume,  and  hence  his  nervous  system 
seems  at  times  worn  by  deep  tossings  of  excitement.  A 
single  incident  will  illustrate  this.  He  was  assaulted  one 
night  in  his  study,  and  only  escaped  the  assassin  by  a  long 
and  desperate  struggle.  To  this  he  deposed  in  detail  before 
a  magistrate;  yet  it  is  now  believed  that  the  horrible  afrair 
was  but  the  work  of  imagination — a  renewal  of  boyish  wak- 
ing dreams,  wrought  to  this  extreme  by  agony  of  soul. 

Two  years  of  married  life  witnessed  the  wreck  of  domestic 
peace.  Christianity  is  the  true  basis  of  the  home,  but  within 
the  family  circle  of  the  Shelley's  its  genial  influence  Avas 
never  known.  Its  place  had  been  usurped  by  wild  theories, 
which  seem  to  have  frightened  away  those  afltctions  which 
should  have  surrounded  the  fireside. 

"  Tell  me  on  what  hallowed  ground 
May  domestic  peace  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  daughter  of  the  skies, 
Far  on  fearful  wings  she  flies, 
From  the  pomp  of  sceptred  state, 
From  the  rebel's  noisy  hate; 
In  some  cottaged  vale  she  dwells — 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells."* 


*  The  above  is  sung  by  Adelaide,  in  Coleridge's  tragedy  of  "The  Fiill 
of  Robespierre."  There  was  at  that  time  no  Sabbath  in  France.  The 
enquiry  here  suggests  itsolf — did  the  poet  forget  this,  or  was  it  an  allusion 
to  the  time  when  theSubljath  bell  had  not  been  forbidden,  and  an  exjires- 
Bion  of  hi:?  conviction  tliat  Cliiistianity  was  essential  to  domestic  peace? 


SUICIDE  OF  A  DESERTED  WIFE.  181 

The  youth  of  twenty,  while  ambitious  to  reform  the  world, 
had  coped  in  vain  with  his  own  passions;  and  we  may  suspect 
that  the  wife  of  eighteen,  after  feeding  for  two  years  upon  the 
poisonous  teachings  of  her  husband,  may  have  been  some- 
what disabled  from  effecting  her  own,  or  the  happiness  of 
others.  At  the  end  of  this  brief  period,  Shelley  deserted  her, 
justifying  his  conduct  by  the  worn-out  plea  of  uncongeniality. 

One  of  the  most  striking  beauties  of  Christianity  is  the 
grace  which  it  throws  about  the  family  circle ;  and  in  its  tem- 
poral blessings  there  can  be  none  greater  than  that  union, 
enjoined  by  its  precepts  and  endeared  by  its  influences.  Had 
these  controlled  that  little  househould,  we  should  not  here  be 
forced  to  record  a  deed  so  base  as  to  silence  the  voices  of  liis 
apologists.  And  now  that  fatal  error,  whose  inception  hud 
blasted  the  prospects  of  the  Oxonian,  hopelessly  wrecks  the 
household,  of  which  he  should  have  been  the  example  and 
protector,  and  renders  the  father  an  exile — the  mother  a 
suicide — and  the  children  orphans.  After  two  years  of  deser- 
tion, the  miserable  Harriet  drowned  herself  at  Bath.  Though 
still  young,  grief  like  that  of  ages  had  devoured  her — and 
turning  from  desolation  to  the  chill  utterances  of  despair,  she 
threw  away  a  life  which  under  other  influences  might  ha\'e 
been  both  useful  and  happy.  Within  six  years,  the  fate  of 
the  drowning  wife  overtook  her  perjured  and  adulterous  hus- 
band, in  the  avenging  billows  of  the  Mediterranean. 

However  uncongenial  may  have  been  this  unfortunate 
union,  it  is  evident  that  the  deserted  wife  was  a  person  of 
respectable  gifts  and  accomplishments.  Indeed,  in  a  letter  to 
Fanny  Godwin,  Shelley  himself  thus  speaks  of  her:  "The 
ease  and  simplicity  of  her  habits,  the  unassuming  plainness  of 
her  dress,  and  the  uncalculated  connection  of  her  thought  and 


182  THE  REFORMER. 

speech,  have  ever  formed  in  my  eyes  the  greatest  charms." 
Whatever  may  have  been  his  antipathy  to  poor  Harriet,  it 
was  brought  to  its  climax  by  an  intimacy  with  the  family  of 
William  Godwin,  where  he  found  relief  from  the  bitterness 
of  matrimonial  disappointment.  His  genius  and  his  misfor- 
tunes awoke  the  girlish  sympathy  of  Mary,  the  daughter  of 
his  host,  and  he  found  in  her  that  ideal  which  Harriet  failed  to 
realize.  Here,  then,  we  have  the  whole  excuse  for  a  crime 
so  atrocious  that  the  school  of  Godwin,  in  its  boldest  sophis- 
try, has  failed  to  varnish  its  guilt,  or  remove  one  jot  of  its 
stigma.  And  from  her  unblessed  grave  poor  Harriet  brings 
her  accusation  against  those  false  teachers,  who  wrought  mu- 
tual ruin  to  the  wedded  pair. 

Mary  Godwin  was  but  sixteen,  but  even  at  that  early  age 
she  had  learned  from  her  parents  that  marriage  was  an  insti- 
tution of  doubtful  importance,  and  one  often  found  adverse  to 
human  weal.  As  the  views  of  Mary  Wolstonecraft  had  thus 
possessed  the  heart  of  her  daughter,  we  do  not  wonder  at  her 
elopement  with  the  poet.  The  suicide  of  poor  Harriet  re- 
lieved the  adulterous  pair  of  restraint  from  a  step  required 
by  custom,  and  led  perhaps  by  a  regard  for  their  infant,  or 
impelled  by  social  laws,  they  improved  the  liberty  thus  affor 
ded  by  marriage.  If  their  subsequent  union  was  of  apparent 
harmony,  still  accusing  conscience  pursued  the  guilty  hus- 
band during  his  few  remaining  years,  and  threw  a  sombi-e 
cloud  over  their  mutual  career.  Shelley's  efforts  seem  hence- 
forth to  have  been  largely  given  to  apologizing  for  his  crime, 
and  in  these  he  seems  to  anticipate  the  vicious  spiritualism  ot 
our  own  day,  in  its  favorite  doctrine  of  "Affinity." 

Here  we  are  compelled  to  witness  genius  degraded  by 
these  foul  and  pernicious  sentiments,  addressed  to  a  woman, 


LORD  ELDON'S  DECISION.  183 

who  had  basely  robbed  a  wife  of  her  husband,  and  a  mother 
of  the  protector  of  her  children.  We  quote  the  lines  thus 
imbued  with  falsehood,  and  which  show  the  degradation  to 
which  Infidelity  has  sunk  its  victim. 

"  Alas !  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one. 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain.     Then  black  despair — 

The  shadow  of  a  starless  night — was  thrown 
Over  the  world,  in  which  I  moved  alone. 

Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me — 
Hard  hearts  and  cold,  Uke  weights  of  icy  stone, 

Which  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  imtil  revived  by  thee. 

"  Thou  friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Fell  Uke  bright  Spring  upon  some  herbless  plain, 
How  beautiful,  and  calm,  and  free  thou  wert. 

In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in  twain, 

And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among, 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long."  * 


o- 


The  misguided  poet  appealed  to  the  law,  in  pursuit  of  the 
children  of  the  first  marriage;  but  Lord  Eldon,  with  admira- 
ble rectitude,  denied  the  claim,  on  the  ground  of  Atheism, 
and  the  nation  honored  the  decision;  indeed,  how  could  an 
avowed  Atheist  be  a  safe  guardian  of  youth  1 

Shelley's  attack  upon  marriage,  as  we  have  observed,  ex- 
hibits the  same  vicious  and  degrading  notions  which  of  late 
years  have  been  rife,  and  whose  vocabulary  includes  the  cant 

*  Dedication  to  Revolt  of  Islam — addressed  to  his  second  wife. 


184:  THE  REFORMER. 

terms  of  "Freelove"  and  "Personal  Sovereignty,"  as  well  as 
"Affinity."  Thus  he  eulogises  the  woman  who  lived  adultcz-- 
ously  with  him,  as  having  "  burst  the  mortal  chain  of  custom, 
and  walked  as  free  as  lights  These  errors  he  no  doubt  im- 
bibed from  the  teachings  of  Wolstonecraft  and  Godwin,  but 
they  had  earlier  apologists  in  the  mad  legislators  of  France. 
One  of  the  first  objects  of  Satanic  attack,  next  to  Christianity 
itself,  is  the  sacred  institution  of  the  family.  Hence  the 
Infidelity  of  the  National  Convention  is  indirectly  revealed 
by  its  debates  upon  this  question.  Cambaceres,  Chairman 
of  the  Committee  of  Legislation,  reports  as  follows — "The 
matrimonial  compact  owes  its  origin  to  natural  laws.  It  is 
perfected  and  strengthened  by  the  institutions  of  society.  The 
will  of  the  united  couple  makes  the  substance  of  the  contract; 
the  chansje  of  that  will  works  its  dissolution.  Divorce  is  a 
wholesome  institution,  for  a  long  time  repressed  from  our 
customs  by  a  religious  influence;  it  will  become  the  more 
useful,  owing  to  our  attention  to  simplify  the  required  pro- 
cedure, and  to  shorten  the  prescribed  delay,"* 

This  report  was  inspired  by  the  poisonous  sentimentalism 
of  Rousseau,  whose  philosophy  had  corrupted  and  bewildered 
all  Europe,  and  now  permeated  the  sickening  theories  of 
chaotic  France.  Rousseau  was  to  this  wretched  nation  what 
Hume  had  been  to  England — the  leading  assailant  of  Christi- 
anity; and  though  differing  essentially  in  genius,  they  prove 
the  identity  of  error  by  the  fact  that  the  doctrines  of  each 
were  absorbed  with  equal  avidity  by  the  young  Reformer. 
And  this  identity  has  been  brought  before  us  recently,  by 
a  mis-called  Woman's  Rights  Convention,  where  the  corrupt 
principles   of  Rousseau,  of  Cambaceres,  of  Hume,  and   of 

*  Discussions  upon  the  Civil  Code.     (Moniteur,  23d  August,  1793.) 


ASSAULT  ON  MARRIAGE.  185 

Shelley,  were  embodied  in  resolutions  so  revolting  and  shame- 
less that  they  would  have  startled  the  boldest  of  those 
errorists. 

Following  his  masters,  therefore,  Shelley  with  his  habitual 
intensity  initiated  his  schemes  of  reform  by  an  assault  upon 
marriage.  Springing  as  it  does  from  the  religion  which  he 
hated,  it  could  not  escape  his  blind  and  implacable  zeal. 
"How  long,"  he  enquires,  "ought  the  sexual  relation  to  last, 
and  what  law  ought  to  specify  the  extent  of  the  grievances 
which  should  limit  its  duration?  A  husband  and  wife  ought 
to  continue  so  long  united  as  they  love  each  other;  any  law 
which  should  bind  them  to  cohabitation  for  one  moment  after 
the  decay  of  their  affection  would  be  a  most  intolerable 
tyranny,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  toleration.  *  *  *  Love  is 
free;  to  promise  for  ever  to  love  the  same  woman  is  not  less 
absurd  than  to  promise  to  believe  the  same  creed*  *  *  *  j 
conceive  that  from  the  abolition  of  marriage  the  fit  and  natu- 
ral arrangement  of  sexual  connexion  would  result.  *  *  *  ^ 
system  could  not  well  have  been  devised  more  studiously  hos- 
tile to  human  happiness  than  marriage^"* 

These  pernicious  views  flow  from  the  rejection  of  Christi- 
anity. The  grave  and  logical  Hume,  while  boasting  of  his 
utilitarianism,  would  perhaps  hardly  have  uttered  or  en- 
dorsed them — yet  Shelley  was  a  true  disciple  of  David  Hume, 
and  differed  only  in  experimenting  where  the  master  theo- 
rized; he  had  learned  that  "happiness  was  the  sole  end  of 
the  science  of  ethics,"  and  this  he  sought,  though  it  led  him 
into  adultery  and  exile. 

Soon  after  the  second  marriage,  he  published  "The  Revolt 
of  Islam;"  it  had  been  preceded  by  "Alastor,"  and  as  that 

*  These  italics  are  ours.    All  others  in  quotations  from  authors  (except 
in  our  notes)  are  copied. 


186  THE  REFORMER. 

brief  but  exquisite  production  was  free  from  social  attack, 
he  now  returns  to  the  charge.  The  Revolt  of  Islam  is  a 
metrical  essay  on  reform — an  idea  which  seems  ever  to  haunt 
his  mind — and  in  this  poem  he  weaves  scenes  involving 
the  fate  of  nations — either  sunk  in  slavery  or  battling  for 
freedom — with  glorious  trains  of  thoughts,  clothed  with  the 
magic  of  lofty  rhyme.  It  presents  the  grand  drama  of  some 
mighty  revolution.  Tyrants  were  to  be  dethroned — ^religious 
frauds  were  to  be  exposed — the  banded  despots  and  their 
hireling  armies  were  to  be  annihilated.  Yet  all  these  attempts 
foil  before  allied  kingcraft.  The  patriots  fall,  by  murder 
or  treason,  and  while  the  poem  closes  in  defeat,  the  reader  is 
reassured  of  some  coming  day  of  bliss,  when  liberty  and  vir- 
tue shall  hold  earth  in  their  genial  sway.  This  great  end  is 
to  be  accomplished  without  the  hand  of  God,  or  even  a  single 
recognition  of  his  power;  without  the  removal  of  sin,  or  any 
reference  to  it  as  the  source  of  human  misery. 

Thus  the  splendid  intellect  labored  blindly  in  the  service  of 
error,  building  airy  castles  when  it  should  have  been  achiev- 
ing great  results,  and  spinning  theories  when  it  should  have 
gi-appled  with  man's  gigantic  foe.     That  foe  is  Sin,  and  of  sin, 

alas !  Shelley  seemed  to  be  unconscious. 

********* 

In  the  spring  of  1819  the  little  circle  of  English  residents 
at  Rome  welcomed  a  returning  group,  consisting  of  parents 
and  child,  whose  strange  and  peculiar  history  had  long  prece- 
ded them.  Curiosity  and  general  interest  would  have  led 
many  to  their  door,  were  it  not  soon  evident  that  their  sphere 
was  far  above  that  of  the  tourist  idler.  The  appearance  of 
this  well  observed  pair  indicated  genius  as  well  as  rank,  but 
both  were  shadowed  by  misfortune,  for  which  they  miglit  find 
solace  in  the  society  of  a  chosen  few,  or  in  antiquarian  re- 


WANDERINGS  AND  SORROW.  187 

search.  The  year  which  had  just  closed  had  led  them  through 
incessant  change.  Last  March  they  had  forsaken  England, 
in  pursuit  of  a  more  congenial  abode.  A  month  had  been 
passed  at  Milan,  and  a  longer  time  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca. 
August  found  them  at  Byron's  villa  near  Este,  whence  the 
illness  of  their  babe  drove  them  to  Venice,  and  as  they  crossed 
the  lagune,  it  exj^ired.  The  sorrow  of  these  homeless  ones 
permeates  the  lines  now  written  among  the  Euganean  hills, 
in  which  it  is  said : 

"  Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave 
Mourns  its  latest  nursling  fled." 

Abandoning  this  scene  of  bereavement,  they  had  sojourned 
at  Ferrara  and  Bologna,  and  after  a  brief  stop  at  Rome,  they 
had  wintered  at  Naples.  Here  one  exhausted  by  ill  health 
and  the  distresses  of  a  life  of  wandering,  might  fitly  exclaim, 

"I  could  lie  down,  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  this  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  naust  bear, 
Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feel,  in  the  warm  air, 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony." 

New  recreation,  however,  was  found  in  researches  in  Paes- 
tum,  Pompeii,  Herculaneum,  and  Baise,  and  now  the  returning 
March  beholds  them  again  at  Rome.  Here  they  were  to 
learn  that  the  past,  bitter  "as  it  had  been,  was  only  the  begin- 
ning of  sorrows ;  for  hither  had  they  come,  while  old  wounds 
ran  fresh,  to  m.eet  that  direst  stroke  which  can  fall  on  parental 
love.  Death  snatched  away  their  Willie — their  first  born, 
and  their  only  one.     The  exiles  laid   him  in  the  English 


188  THE  REFORMER. 

cemetery,  and  then  sat  down,  desolate,  amid  ruins.  Some  of 
the  poet's  fragments  of  this  date  are  utterances  of  a  soul 
pierced  with  anguish  as  with  a  sword. 

"Oh,  world  I    Oh,  life!     Oh,  Time  I 
On  whose  last  steps  I  olimb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before, 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime ': 

Never  more — 0  never  more ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night, 
A  joy  has  taken  flight — 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  deUght, 

No  more — 0  never  morel" 

And  again: 

"  They  die !     The  dead  return  not.     Misery 

Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them  over — 
A  youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard  eye." 


'  Death  is  here,  and  Death  is  there ; 
Death  is  busy  everywhere — 
All  around,  within,  beneath — 
Above  is  Death,  and  we  are  death. 

****** 

First  our  pleasures  die,  and  then 
Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears;  and  wln'n 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due — 
Dust  claims  dust,  and  we  die  too." 


"Far,  far  away,  0  ye 
Halcyons  of  memory, 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest, 
Than  this  abandoned  breast; 


THE  SMITTEN  PAMILT.  189 

No  news  of  your  false  spring 
To  my  heart's  winter  bring — 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 

Ye  come  again. 
Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 
High  in  the  Future's  towers, 
Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread — 
Dying  joys  choked  by  the  dead 
Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey, 

Many  a  day," 

And  he  breathes  a  sweet  tribute  to  the  little  one  just  torn 
from  his  arms: 

"  My  lost  William — thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume. 

Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb. 

But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not.     If  a  thing  divine. 
Like  thee,  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief,  and  mine." 
*********** 

During  the  serene  hours  of  an  Italian  spring,  a  lonely  one 
might  have  been  seen  pursuing  his  pensive  way  amid  the 
ruins  of  ancient  art.  Though  not  more  than  twenty-seven, 
his  brow  was  flecked  with  gray,  and  his  tall  form  was  bowed 
by  sorrow  and  care,  and  dark  hours  of  conflict.*     Nature  was 

*  "  'Twas  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 
In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought, 
In  distant  lands,  and  been  deceived 
By  some  strange  show ;  for  there  were  found, 
Blotted  with  tears,  as  those  relieved 
By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do. 


100  THE  REFORMER. 

putting  forth  her  vernal  beauty,  and  the  wild  vines  were 
renewing  their  foliage,  and  hiding  prostrate  colunins  and 
graceful  arches  in  greenery  and  flowers;  but  to  him,  there 
was  no  more  spring.  The  present  and  the  future  were  alilcc 
overcast,  and  the  past  held  up  its  withering  record.  His  first 
Avife  filled  a  suicide's  grave,  and  her  children  were  for  away 
from  him,  whom  once  they  knew  as  father,  but  whose  name 
must  now  be  banished  from  their  memories.  His  second 
union  had  been  invaded  by  death — one  babe  lay  at  Venice, 
and  here  he  might  watch  the  tomb  of  his  Willie,  and  say,  "I 
envy  death  the  body  far  less  than  the  oppressors  the  minds 
of  those  whom  they  have  torn  from  me.  The  one  can  only 
kill  the  body — the  other  crushes  the  affections." 

Alas!  how  changed  is  he  of  the  drooping  brow  and  the 
saddened  countenance  from  the  bouyant  youth  of  Field 
Place,  or  the  jubilant  enthusiast  of  Oxford?  But  still  more 
pitiable  is  the  change  in  character;  there  was  a  time  when  his 
boyish  lips  would  have  quivered  at  the  thought  of  present 
disiionor;  there  was  a  time  when  his  high-toned  soul  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  prophecy  of  so  dark  a  career.  Yet 
even  of  such  an  one  has  this  been  accomplished,  and  he  now 
stands  before  us  the  violator  of  plighted  troth,  the  apologist 


These  moumfiil  verses  on  the  ground, 

By  all  who  read  them  blotted  too: 

'  How  am  I  changed !    My  hopes  were  once  like  fire — 

I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was  love. 

How  am  I  lost    *     *     *        *     *     * 

*     *     *        I  wake  to  weep, 

And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing  the  core 

01'  uiy  bitter  heart." 

Shelley. — Rosalind  and  Helen. 


LIFE  IN  THE  ETERNAL  CITY.  191 

of  adultery,  and  the  assailant  of  that  holy  faith,  which  is  the 
hope  of  the  world.  O  what  a  fall  is  here!  How  does  it 
prove  the  power  of  error — so  rapid,  and  so  damning?  Thus 
does  it  master  even  genius,  and  transform  it,  as  by  some 
horrid  sorcery,  until  the  once  noble  boy  has  become  an 
enemy  of  his  race.  And  the  sad  spectacle,  as  w^e  gaze  upon 
it,  recalls  those  fearful  lines,  whose  truth  and  power  familiar- 
ity cannot  impair,  and  which  are  even  now  as  fresh  as  when 
uttered  by  the  thoughtful  Mantuan. 
" facilis  descensus  Averni 


m         *****         » 
Sed  revocare  gradum  superasque  evadere  ad  auras 
Hoc  opus,  hie  labor  est." 
********* 

It  is  midnight.  All  Rome  is  bathed  in  moonlight,  so  soft 
and  dreamy,  that  the  beauties  of  even  an  Italian  day  yield  to 
its  enchantment.  The  bell  has  just  uttered  its  plaintive 
record  of  the  fleeting  hours,  when  that  same  bowed  form  is 
seen  forsaking  the  stranger's  quarter,  and  wending  his  way 
toward  the  suburbs.  As  he  passes  with  listless  step  down 
the  Corso,  the  stately  palace  of  the  Barberini  reminds  him 
that  tliere  the  lorn  Beatrice,  year  after  year,  keeps  her  vigil 
of  sorrow,  and  he  breathes  a  tribute  to  the  memory  which 
his  pen  shall  consecrate  with  better  art  than  even  the  pencil 
of  Guido.  In  a  few  moments  the  city  of  the  living  is  passed, 
and  he  stands  in  the  region  of  the  dead.  The  wilderness  of 
ruin  now  opening  before  him  seems  vocal  with  the  glories  of 
the  ancient  Forum.  In  silver  radiance,  but  relieved  by  deep- 
toned  shadow,  there  stand  the  exquisite  columns  of  Jupiter 
Stator,  while  the  ai-ch  of  Severus  indicates  the  via  sacra  of 
imperial  days.      A  little  further  on  he  is  greeted   by  the 


192  TOE  REFORMER. 

graceful  Foca,  and  then  the  beetling  walls  of  the  Coliseum 
l>ury  hina  in  shadow.  Soon  he  is  tracing  his  way  through  the 
open  and  ivied  chambers  of  Caracalla's  baths,  and  at  length 
his  restless  feet  bear  him  to  his  Willie's  grave.  And  this, 
after  all,  is  the  sweetest  place,  even  in  storied  Rome;  for 
here  is  laid  his  chief  treasure.  The  moonbeams  kiss  the 
turfy  mound,  beside  M^hich  his  own  ashes  shall  soon  rest; 
near  by  is  the  grave  of  poor  Keats,  while  the  tall  pyramid  of 
Cestius,  glistening  in  the  magic  light,  seems  to  guard  the 
sacred  spot.  We  have  followed  the  perturbed  wanderer  to 
the  place  where 

" the  holy  calm  that  breathes  around, 


Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease ; 
In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground, 
A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace." 

But  the  throbbing  heart  is  still  in  conflict — and  no  voice  of 
resignation,  and  no  utterances  of  foith  soothe  the  soul's  unrest. 
As  he  gazes  around,  the  past  and  the  present  weave  their  his- 
tory into  one.  The  bards  of  olden  time,  who  have  embraced  his 
own  Adonais,  approach  to  welcome  their  smitten  compeer, 
and  the  mourners  of  by-gone  ages  seem  to  march  by  in 
solemn  pomp  of  woe,  extending  sympathy  to  one  wbo 
inherits  their  tears,  and  who  distils  them  on  the  little  grave 
at  his  feet.  At  last,  as  the  spell  becomes  stronger,  reverie 
changes  into  life,  and  old  Rome  opens  before  him,  in  the 
glory  of  her  prime.  The  vast  area  is  teeming  with  the  throng 
of  her  palmy  days,  whose  splendors  change  only  to  increase 
in  varying  majesty.  He  sees,  or  seems  to  see,  all  that  Time 
has  buried  in  silence  and  in  dust,  and  his  heart  beats  with 
new  life  at  the  imposing  scene.     He  hails  the  Gracchi — he 


MEDITATIONS  OF  AN  EXILE.  193 

hids  Brutus  strike — he  bums  beneath  Tully's  words  of 
fire — and  the  cry  at  which  the  nations  trembled  thrills  his 
soul,  "Senatus  Populusque  Romanus,"  New  life  has  for  a 
moment  come  to  his  weary  heart — ^but  ah!  tis  gone,  for  the 
dream  is  broken.  Where  is  he  now?  And  the  solitary 
buries  his  face  in  his  bosom,  while  desolation  wraps  him  in 
its  icy  shroud,  and  hope  even  flies  from  the  future. 

O,  among  all  that  marked  the  fall  of  the  imperial  city, 
what  was  there  so  moving  in  pathos,  or  so  mournful  in  its 
history,  as  that  living  ruin  which  Rome  now  contained? 
This  thought  so  powerfully  inspires  some  of  his  lines  as  to 
prove  its  secret  power  over  his  soul,  and  while  he  refers  to 
"the  vigorously  awakening  spring,  and  the  new  life  with 
which  it  drenches  the  spirit,  even  to  intoxication,"  as  the 
inspiration  of  his  newly-attempted  drama,  yet  it  is  evident 
from  its  character  that  that  inspiration  was  drawn  from  his 
own  dark  and  fearful  experiences.  These,  indeed,  were  a 
fitting  preparation  for  sympathy  with  the  sublime  sorrow  of 
ancient  tragedy,  and  its  crushed  yet  defiant  heroism.  The 
"Prometheus  Unbound,"  the  fruit  of  these  shadowed  hours, 
was  the  author's  favorite,  as  well  as  his  greatest  poem.  In  it 
he  rises  to  the  grandeur  of  the  bard,  and  takes  rank  with  the 
masters  of  the  drama.  It  was  written  amid  the  ruins  of 
Caracalla's  baths,  "a  maze  of  gigantic  chambers,  opened  to 
the  sky,  and  carpeted  with  verdure — of  shattered  towers, 
wreathed  in  a  drapery  of  glorious  weeds  and  trailing  ivy, 
with  which  the  stone-work  had  been  almost  incorporated — 
of  heaped  masses  of  masonry,  out  of  which  sprung  groves  of 
flowering  shrubs — of  broken  arches,  winding  stair-cases,  and 
hidden  nooks  for  quiet  thought."*     It  was  a  fitting  scene  for 

*  Slielley  Memorials. 

9 


191  THE  REFORMER. 

the  working  up  of  high  tragedy,  and  he  wrought  out  of  his 
own  agonized  soul  the  anguish  of  the  unconquerable  Titan, 
while  amid  sunshine  and  beauty  the  vulture  fed  upon  his 
hea]^. 

But  the  sacred  communion  of  sorrow  embraced  others 
besides  the  fabled  groups  of  the  ancient  drama,  and  the  sad 
inspiration  which  now  mastered  the  poet's  soul  yearned  over 
all  the  heavy-hearted.  If  excluded  from  sympathy  with  the 
living,  he  was  not  from  the  dead.  While  wandering  through 
the  galleries  of  the  Barberini  Palace,  a  lorn  and  lovely,  but 
heart-broken  maiden  whispered  to  him  her  dark  and  harrow- 
ing tale.  It  was  a  sweet,  girlish  countenance — all  woe-begone, 
and  pale  as  the  drapery  that  hid  her  golden  tresses;  but 
Guido's  pencil  had  wrought  the  features  into  life,  and  inno- 
cence  survived    despair.*      A   voice,    weak    from    torture, 

*  "  The  portrait  of  Beatrice  at  the  Colonna  (Barberini)  Palace  is  most 
admirable,  as  a  work  of  art.  It  was  taken  by  Guido,  during  her  confine- 
ment in  prison.  But  it  is  most  interesting  as  ajust  representation  of  one 
of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  the  workmanship  of  Nature.  There  is  a 
fixed  and  pale  composure  on  the  features :  she  seems  sad,  and  stricken 
down  in  spirit,  yet  the  despair  thus  expressed  is  lightened  by  the  patience 
of  gentleness.  Her  head  is  bound  by  folds  of  white  drapery,  from  which 
the  yellow  strings  of  her  golden  hair  escape  and  fall  about  her  neck. 
The  moulding  of  her  face  is  extiuisitoly  delicate;  the  eye-brows  are  dis- 
tinct and  arched ;  the  lips  have  that  permanent  meaning,  of  imagination 
and  sensibility,  which  suffering  has  not  repressed,  and  which  it  seems  as 
if  death  scarcely  could  extinguish.  Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear.  Her 
eyes,  which  we  were  told  were  remarkable  for  their  vivacity,  are  swollen 
with  weeping,  and  lustreless,  but  beautifully  tender  and  serene.  In  the 
whole  mien  there  is  a  simplicity  and  dignity  which,  united  with  her  exciui- 
site  loveliness,  are  inexpressibly  pathetic.  Beatrice  Cenci  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  those  rare  persons  in  whom  energy  and  gentleness  dwell  to- 
gether, without  destroying  one  another.  Her  nature  was  simple  and 
profound." — Preface  to  "  Tli£  Cenci." 


'^JStt',y,.rho..lu-- 


"D 


CENCI  AND  THE  TROMETIIEUS.  195 

ascending  from  the  dark  and  slimy  cell,  appealed  to  the 
poet's  heart  from  that  fell  tribunal  which  adjudged  her  to 
the  scaffold,  and  besought  vindication  from  calumny  and 
shame.  From  day  to  day  he  held  converse  with  that  maiden 
of  awful  doom,  until  the  groans  of  the  deep-souled  Prome- 
theus found  a  response  in  her  wailing  whispers,  and  one  act 
of  sympathy  enshrined  them  in  his  chambers  of  imagery. 
The  tragedy  of  "The  Cenci"  was  composed  before  even  the 
"Prometheus"  was  finished;  and  in  its  stately  acts  Beatrice 
summons  her  judges  to  the  tribunal  of  the  world.  It  is 
impossible  to  view  without  emotion  that  countenance,  in 
which  youth,  prematurely  broken,  yields  to  a  bitter  destiny; 
but  not  until  she  is  pourtrayed  by  the  tragic  muse  can  we 
truly  sympathise  with  the  victim  of  a  demon  father,  or  enter 
the  world  of  woe  wherein  she  dwelt. 

But  it  is  not  of  the  Poet  that  we  so  much  write  as  of  the 
Reformer.  While  as  the  first  he  takes  rank  amid  the  bards 
of  all  ages,  as  the  latter  his  doctrines  poison  many  an  unwary 
reader,  and  give  assurance  to  those  who  care  nothing  for  his 
alflatus,  and  view  him  only  as  an  assailant  of  Christianity. 
By  a  peculiar  misapprehension,  he  always  conceived  his  mis- 
sion to  be  Reform,  rather  than  Poetry,  and  even  three  years 
before  his  death  he  writes  his  publisher,  from  Florence,  "I 
am  preparing  an  octavo,  on  Reform.  *  *  *  I  intend  it  to  be 
an  instructive,  readable  book,  appealing  from  the  passions  to 
tlie  reason  of  men."  *  Yet,  notwithstanding  his  conceit,  his 
philosophy  only  deforms  the  splendor  of  his  genius,  by  its 
harsh  and  bewildering  Atheism.     As  Shelley  will  always  be 

*  "  Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  acknowledging  that  I 
have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher  characteristically  terms,  '  a  passion  lor 
reforming  the  world.'  " — Preface  to  "  Promeihem." 


196  THE  REFORMER. 

read,  we  are  glad  to  know  that  a  Boston  house  has  issued  an 
expurgated  edition,  and  thus,  while  enjoying  the  author's 
beauties,  one  may  escape  the  serpent  which  they  otherwise 
conceal. 

It  is  stated,  by  way  of  extenuation,  that  Queen  Mab  was 
"published  surreptitiously,  and  that  the  copies  printed  by  its 
youthful  author  were  intended  merely  for  private  circulation. 
But  lame  as  such  an  apology  must  be,  it  is  utterly  vitiated 
by  the  fact  that  in  his  later  days  he  abated  not  one  jot  of  its 
Atheism,  or  tempered  its  virulent  tone.  It  is  true  that  a 
year  before  his  death,  when  the  surreptitious  edition  appeared, 
he  wrote  to  the  Examiner  that  "it  was  written  at  the  age  ot 
eighteen — I  dare  say,  in  a  sufficiently  intemperate  spirit.  I 
have  not  seen  this  production  in  several  years.  I  doubt  not 
but  that  it  is  perfectly  worthless,  in  point  of  literary  compo- 
sition, and  that  in  all  that  concerns  moral  and  political 
speculation,  as  well  as  in  the  subtler  discriminations  of  meta- 
physical and  religious  doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude  and 
immature."  But  while  thus  admitting  it  to  be  "crude  and  im- 
mature," he  never  disclaimed  its  purpose  to  attack  Christian- 
ity, and  it  still  lives  to  breathe  its  malignant  enmity,  and  to 
strengthen  the  crude  unbelief  of  thousands. 

Shelley  thus  became  prominent  as  the  exponent  of  the  Infi- 
del Reform  of  his  age,  and  the  Socialism  which  lurked  in  his 
teachings  was  in  due  time  developed  by  another.  The  bi-oad 
radicalism  of  his  schemes  may  be  expressed  in  a  few  words. 
There  was  no  reality  in  the  word  "Sin,"  and  there  was  no 
necessity  for  sorrow.  The  misfortunes  of  mankind  arose 
from  the  tyranny  of  kings  and  priests.  Hence  the  cry  Mas 
"overturn,  overturn!"  and  in  this  fell  swoop  were  included 
religion,  marriage,  and  other  such  social   institutions  as  were 


CHALMERS  AND  ROUSSEAU.  197 

supposed  to  be  of  an  antagonistic  nature.  This  having  been 
done,  society  was  to  be  reorganized  upon  a  new  basis.  The 
mind  was  to  be  expanded  in  genial  and  aesthetic  culture,  while 
the  body  was  to  be  emancipated  from  all  things  inconsistent 
with  health  and  pleasure.  Disease  having  been  banished  Ijy 
temperance,  and  poverty  by  industry,  a  universal  brother- 
hood was  to  fill  the  earth,  and  Reason  and  Nature  were  to  be 
the  only  objects  of  worship. 

In  1819,  while  Shelley  was  racked  with  these  futile  schemes, 
the  mighty   mind  of  Chalmers  was   achieving  true  reform 
among  the  degraded  masses  of  Glasgow.     In  a  lecture  deliv- 
ered at  this  time,  he  presents  a  scathing  analysis  of  the  false 
philosophy  of  Rousseau,  which  Shelley  unconsciously  repro- 
duced.    The  Swiss  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  Englishman 
of  the   nineteenth  century,    exhibit   one  feature  of  striking 
identity,  for  while  both  were  guilty  of  high  crimes  against 
God  and  society,  neither  of  them  seemed  conscious  of  sin. 
In   this  they   differ   from  the  dissolute    Byron,   who,  while 
sharing  their  impiety,  continually  admits  the  great  fact  of 
human  depravity — a  confession  no  doubt  wrung  from  him  by 
the  bitter  experiences  of  his  wretched  career.     The  antithesis 
between  them  is  thus  drawn  by  Chalmers,  who  remarks  of 
the  latter:  "He  never  aimed  to  better  a  world,  of  which  he 
seldom  spoke  but  in  the  deep  and  bitter  derision  of  a  heart 
that  utterly  despised  it — not  because  of  its  ungodliness,  tur 
It  is  not  this  which  calls  forth  the  vindictiveness  of  his  most 
appalling  abjurations.      But  it  is   obviously   his  feeling   of 
humanity  that  its  whole  heart  is  sick,  and  its  whole  head  is 
sore — that  some  virus  of  deep  and  deadly  infusion  pervades 
the  whole  extent  of  it;  and  never  is  he  more  in  his  own 
fiivorite  element  than  when  giving  back  to  the  world,  from 


198  THE  REFORMER. 

his  own  pages,  the  reflected  image  of  that  guilt  which  troubles 
and  deforms  it.  One  should  have  liked  to  see  a  mind  so 
powerful  as  his,  led  to  that  secret  of  this  world's  depravity, 
which  is  only  revealed  unto  babes,  while  hid  in  a  veil  of 
apparent  mysticism  from  the  wise  and  the  prudent.  And 
yet,  even  as  it  is,  does  he  in  the  wild  and  frenzied  career  of 
his  own  imagination  catch  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  truth  that 
he  had  not  yet  apprehended." 

"  Our  life  is  a  false  nature — ^"tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things — this  hard  decree — 
This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin — 
This  boundless  Upas — this  all-blasting  tree, 
Whose  root  is  earth ;  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies,  which  rain  their  plagues  on  man,  like  dew : 
Disease,  death,  bondage — all  the  woes  we  see. 
And  even  the  woes  we  see  not,  which  throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new." 

These  lines  exhibit  Byron's  nearest  approach  to  truth,  and 
are  in  contrast  with  the  striking  picture  of  life's  conflict, 
drawn  by  Wordsworth.  The  one  pauses  from  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  to  gaze  upon  the  stupendous  woes  of  mankind,  and 
is  then  hurried  away  by  his  vicious  career;  the  other  saw 
not  only  the  wound,  but  the  balm  which  alone  can  heal  it. 

"  0  life !  without  thy  checkered  scene, 
Of  right  and  wrong — of  weal  and  woe, 
Success  and  failure — could  a  ground 

For  magnanimity  be  found. 
Or  Faith,  midst  broken  hopes,  serene — 
Or  whence  could  virtue  flow  ? 

"  Pain  entered  through  a  ghastly  breach ; 
Nor  while  life  lasts  must  effort  cease. 


REFORM  WITHOUT  RELIGION.  199 

Heaven  upon  earth's  an  empty  boast — 

But  for  those  bowers  of  Eden  lost, 
Mercy  has  placed  within  our  reach 

A  portion  of  God's  peace." 

Eeform,  without  religion,  has  been  the  standing  boast  of 
the  Infidel — yet  were  the  highest  success  attained  that  ever 
an  Owen  or  a  Fourier  dreamed  of,  it  is  very  easy  to  prove  tliat 
it  would  not  ensure  man's  chief  good.  That  good  must  be 
RECEIVED  through  THE  MORAL  NATURE.  We  may  imagine  the 
fairest  of  domains,  with  its  associated  groups — its  divisions  of 
labor — its  highest  felicity  of  attraction  and  {esthetic  culture, 
which,  despite  all  these,  might  be  the  scene  of  heart-misery 
such  as  physical  suffering  never  approached.  "Is  not  the 
body  more  than  meat,  and  the  soul  more  than  raiment?" 
Can  these  glittering  advantages,  in  all  their  fulness,  adminis- 
ter to  the  wants  of  the  moral  nature,  or  prescribe  for  what 
Byron  so  despairing  calls  "the  immedicable  soul,"  or  answer 
that  appeal  which  the  sin-sick,  and  the  sorrow-laden,  so 
vainly  utter? 

"  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased — 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow — 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  with  some  sweet,  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  weighs  upon  the  heart  ?  " 

Were  it  not  for  man's  natural  blindness,  we  might  here 
confess  our  astonishment  that  the  Infidel  school  of  reform 
persists,  age  after  age,  in  overlooking  the  great  question  of 
sin — its  nature,  and  its  remedy.  The  problem  is  not  merely 
the  escape  from  poverty,  for  mankind  may  be  as  happy  and  as 


200  THE  REFORMER. 

useful  in  poverty  as  in  wealth ;  hut  to  obtain  deliverance  from 
sin,  the  source  of  all  evil.  This  question  meets  us  at  every 
turn,  and  is  only  answered  by  that  gospel,  so  maligned  and 
despised.  It  is  this  alone  which  can  give  peace  to  the  dying — 
•can  sustain  the  soul  when  sinking  under  misfortune — can 
cheer  the  bereaved — can  revive  hope  even  in  the  despairing ; 
and  it  is  this  which  must  work  that  restoration  "  not  dreamed 
of  in  your  philosophy."  Thus  we  are  brought  to  the  conclusion 
that  Christianity  alone  affords  a  remedy  for  the  otherwise 
"immedicable  soul."  Yet,  while  accomplishing  her  holy 
jiurpose,  she  still  receives  the  vilest  execrations  from  Infidel 
reformers,  who  adjure  her  to  cease  her  stately  march,  and 
give  place  to  their  crude  inventions. 

The  crazy  attempts  at  Socialism  which  were  agitated  a  few 
years  since  illustrate  this  truth,  and  teach  an  enduring  lesson. 
Among  others,  New  Jersey  Phalanx,  Sylvania  and  Skenea- 
teles  leaped  into  sudden  existence,  and  were  hailed  as  marking 
a  new  and  happy  era  in  social  life.  They  were  to  demonstrate 
the  ability  of  man  to  attain  the  highest  good  without  the  aid 
of  Christianity.  They  were  to  fulfill  the  hopes  of  the  Positive 
philosophy,  and  to  exhibit  a  world  abundant  in  physical  and 
moral,  as  well  as  sesthetic  delights,  independent  of  that  element 
which  IS  the  only  foundation  of  happiness.  Its  motto  was, 
"a  boastful  Deism."  But  socialism  is  of  too  rank  a  growth 
fur  America;  the  moral  tone  of  our  country  must  sink  still 
lower  before  it  can  flourish  within  her  borders,  and  the  Atheist 
fraternities,  one  after  another,  disbanded.  Their  day  is  past — 
and  while  we  shrink  from  the  foul  blasphemy  which  breathed 
from  their  nostrils,  and  the  malignant  slanders  which  they 
poured  on  the  gospel  and  its  ministry,  we  can  not  but  refer  k 
to  one  of  those  chief  demonstrations  which  so  truly  reveal    •' 


REFORM  SPEECHES.  •  201 

their  character.  We  quote  from  the  proceedings  of  the  New 
England  Social  Reform  Convention,  held  in  Boston,  June, 
1844.  *  Mr.  Collins  (one  of  the  speakers,)  after  briefly 
enumerating  the  vices  that  grew  out  of  all  religions  having 
their  foundations  in  mystery,  said  that  "The  actions,  views,  and 
policy  of  society  were  graduated  by  a  false  philosophy.  *  *  * 
Mystery  is  essential  to  the  clergy;  Reason  is  their  deadliest 
foe.  If  mind  could  account  for  the  good  and  bad,  and  all  the 
varied  actions  of  men,  upon  natural  and  philosophical  princi- 
ples—if he  saw  that  love,  virtue,  and  purity  were  native 
elements  of  the  human  mind — that  vice,  crime,  and  misery 
were  the  results  of  a  false  society,  which  had  its  toundation 
in  ignorance  of  man's  nature  and  capacity,  and  not  in  his  own 
will  and  choice — that  abundance  of  love,  peace  and  purity 
would  necessarily  spring  from  true  social  relations — then  the 
hocus-pocus  of  the  clergy  would  be  seen  and  appi'eciated 
accordingly."  *  *  *  "We  have  had  religion,  some  say  6,000, 
but  I  say  60,000  years,  and  what  better  are  we  for  it?  Re- 
lio-ion  is  essential  to  darkness.     She  cheats  man  into  his 

i 

want  without  hope.  He  must  have  some  hope  on  which  to  ^ 
fix  his  mind,  when  ground  to  dMt  beneath  the  wheels  of  the 
Juo-o-ernaut  of  a  church !  Religion  gratifies  his  hope.  She 
tells  him  that  Heaven  is  beyond  the  grave— that  to  merit  it 
he  must  show  becoming  fortitude  under  his  affliction  here — 
that  just  in  proportion  as  he  suffers  the  keenest  sorrow,  will 
he  be  entitled  to  the  highest  joys  hereafter.  She  thus  cheats 
him  of  the  present  by  a  lie,  and  of  the  future  by  an  unsub- 
stantial dream." 

*  From  "The  Social  Pioneer  and  Herald  of  Progress."— Boston :  J.  P. 
Mcmiura. 


present  suffering,  and  cheats  him  out  of  present  enjoyments. 
It  is  absurd  to  think  that  men  can  exist  under  vice  and 


202  .      THE  REFORMER. 

*  *  *  "The  chui'ch  did  not  meet  any  of  the  essential  wants 
of  man's  nature;  its  teachings  were  dark;  its  dogmas  con- 
fused and  intangible;  its  views  of  man's  nature  and  capacity 
low,  debasing  and  demoralizing;  its  character  of  the  Deity 
contradictory,  absurd,  and  even  blasphemous,  inasmuch  as  a 
God  of  benevolence,  knowledge,  and  power  could  not  permit 
so  much  disease,  sorrow  and  suffering  as  now  and  ever  has 
existed.  *  *  *  Did  not  every  man  know  that  slavery,  intem- 
perance, and  swindling  were  positive  evils,  which  should  be 
destroyed  instead  of  sustained?  Were  not  three-fourths  of 
all  the  established  clergy  actually  compelled  by  the  public 
opinion  of  the  churches  to  sustain  one  or  more  of  these  evils'?" 

Mr.  Taylor  "compared  the  priests  with  the  partridge  and 

her  brood  of  young.     They  wished  to  lure  social  reformers 

away  from  their  nests  in   their   pulpits,  where  they  have 

broods  and  broods  of  young  curses  for  the  race.     They  raise 

false  issues,  and  by  a  thousand  tricks  endeavor  to  divert  the 

public   enquiry  as   to   the  influence   of  the   clergy  against 

reform." 

»■ 

Mr,  Swasey  "  denounced'a  hireling  priesthood  as  a  trammel 
and  a  shackle  upon  the  mind  and  body  of  the  race;  fettering 
its  freedom,  depriving  it  of  its  noblest  energies,  or  prosti- 
tuting those  energies  to  it^l^wn  degradation.  It  was  a  fact 
that  entered  like  iron  into  the  soul  of  every  man  who  desired 
to  be  free,  that  the  clergy  were  the  body-guards  of  despotism. 
*  *  *  And  he  would  say  in  the  face  of  every  priest,  that 
while  they  preached  doctrines  he  delighted  to  honor,  tliey 
practiced  docti'ines  most  damning  to  humanity.  *  *  *  'J'lie 
vice  and  consequent  misery  so  prevalent,  in  connection  with 
the  denominated  marriage  relation  of  the  day,  is  so  univer- 
sal— he  could  say  so  absolute,  tliat  he  looked  upon  it  as  the 
imperative  duty  of  ever}  Reformer  to  reflect  upon  its  crimi- 


CHRISTIANITY  S¥ILL  SURVIVES.  203  " 

nality,  and  having  made  up  his  mind,  to  exert  himself  for  a 
reform  so  much  demanded.  *  *  *  He  knew  nothing  which 
so  much  needs  reform  as  this  *  *  *  and  he  called  on  all, 
married  or  unmarried,  young  or  old,  in  Humanity's  name  to 
lift  up  their  voice  and  arms  for  the  overthrow  of  this  great 
and  universal  source  of  crime  and  misery." 

After  much  discussion,  in  which  some  deprecated  the 
extremity  of  these  views,  thirty  resolutions  were  passed, 
denouncing  religion  and  existing  governments  of  every  form, 
and  affirming  the  right  of  married  parties  to  separate  "when- 
ever they  have  outlived  the  affections,  and  can  no  longer 
contribute  to  the  happiness  of  each  other." 

Had  Shelley  ^yitnessed  this  convention,  he  might  have  been 
gratified  by  its  faithful  adherence  to  his  precepts;  but  his 
hate  to  Christianity  would  have  been  still  embittered  by 
disappointment,  for  she  survives  each  attack,  and  stands  at 
this  moment  far  stronger,  even  in  Boston,  than  when  thus 
assailed ;  and  unchanging  as  her  divine  founder,  she  still  leads 
in  benignant  progress,  while  alJj^he  Atheist  schemes  which 
have  striven  to  subvert  her,  me  after  the  other,  have 
collapsed. 

The  extracts  which  we  have  thus  given  will  show  how  blind 
Infidelity  is  to  the  highest  goo^wWe  gaze  upon  its  followers 
with  sorrow — for  they  are  casting  away  the  only  hope  of  our 
race.  We  fain  would  exclaim,  "  O,  misguided  brothers !  ere 
you  have  finally  contemned  the  Bible,  have  you  ever  proved 
its  power  to  reform  and  elevate  mankind?  Is  there  no  balm 
in  Gilead,  that  you  are  fetching  us  "accursed  juice  of  He- 
benon?"  Ministers  and  churches,  and  the  forces  of  Christi- 
anity may  not,  as  yet,  be  accomplishing  their  full  purpose  in 
the   removal   of  evil;  yet,  grievous  as   is   our  present  con- 


204  THE  REFORMER. 

dition,  would  it  not  be  vastly  worse  without  them?  Let  this 
question  be  answered  by  a  view  of  the  Heathen  world.  Indeed, 
false  and  heartless  as  society  may  often  be  found,  beneath  the 
very  shadow  of  the  church,  it  is  only  because  her  precepts  and 
doctrines  have  been  disregarded.  Wherever  they  are  fully 
operative,  society  will  abolish  wrongs  and  suppress  vice,  and 
reap  a  reward  in  temporal  prosperity,  as  well  as  in  moral 
amelioration.  "Go  preach  my  gospel,"  was  the  command 
of  Him,  whose  especial  mission  it  was  to  "bind  up  the  broken- 
hearted, to  heal  them  that  are  bruised,"  and  in  truth  to  re- 
move all  misery  from  the  earth.     And  in  his  Gospel  we 

FIND  THE  only   MEANS  ADEQUATE  TO  THAT  MIGHTY  END.* 

That  Gospel's  power  and  efficacy  are  well  illustrated  by 
the  labors  of  the  missionary,  Brainerd,  among  the  Indians  of 
New  Jersey.  Their  degradation  was  unutterable — they  were 
ignorant,  destitute,  indolent,  filthy,  cruel  and  intemperate. 
Yet  these  savages  became,  when  brought  under  the  influence 
of  Christianity,  industrious,  kind-hearted,  humane,  and  even 
heavenly  minded;  so  much  so  that  their  tender-hearted  pastor 
expressed  his  delight  in  their  society.  To  quote  from  his 
journal:    "Afterwards  I  baptised  fourteen  persons;  two  of 


*  The  necessity  of  a  scheme  wj^h,  like  the  Gospel,  shall  strike  at  the 
root  of  sin,  and  have  for  its  obje^^ikc  regeneration  of  the  race,  is  thus 
hit  off  by  Carlyle:  "Reform  is  not  joyous,  but  grievous;  no  single- 
handed  man  can  reform  himself  without  stern  suffering  and  stern  working. 
The  serpent  sheds  not  his  old  skin  without  rusty  disconsolatencss — he  is 
not  happy,  but  miserable.  Thus  Medea,  when  she  made  men  young  again, 
was  wont  ( 0,  Heaven  I)  to  hew  them  in  pieces  unOi  nieatrozcs,  cast  them  into 
caldrons,  and  boil'them  for  a  lene/ih  of  time.''''  This  rude  idea  is  fulfilled, 
with  glorious  power,  in  the  new  life  which  Christianity  gives  its  followers : 
the  language  of  the  Gospel  is,  "  beliold,  I  make  all  things  new  !  "  Did 
Carlyle  never  hear  of  tliis,  that  he  had  to  go  back  to  Medea  for  an  illus- 
tration ? 


EXAMPLE  OF  BRAINEED. 


205 


them  were  men  of  fifty  years,  who  had  been  singular  and  re- 
markable among  the  Indians  for  their  wickedness.     One  of 
them  had  been  a  murderer,  and  both  notorious  drunkards,  as 
well  as  excessively  quarrelsome;  but  now  I  cannot  but  hope 
that  both  of  them  have  become  objects  of  God's  especial 
ijrace."  *  *  *  Again,  in  speaking  of  the  amelioration  wrought 
in  the  mass,  he  states:  "They  seem  generally  divorced  from 
drunkenness — their  darling  vice — the  sin  that  easily  besets 
them,  so  that  I  do  not  know  more  than  two  or  three  who 
have  been  my  steady  hearers  that  have  drunk  to  excess  since 
I  first  visited  them,  although  before  that,  it  was  common  for 
some  or  other  of  them  to  be  drunk  almost  every  day.  *  *  * 
A  principle  of  honesty  and  justice  appears  in  many  of  them, 
and  they  seem  concerned  to  discharge  their  old  debts,  which 
they  have  neglected,  and  perhaps  scarcely  thought  of  for 
years  past.     Their  manner  of  living  is  much  more  decent  and 
comfortable  than  formerly,  having  the  benefit  of  that  money 
which  they  used  to  consume  on  strong  drink.     Love  seems 
to    reign   among    them,    especially   those   who    have    given 
evidence  of  having  passed  a  saving  change."    Again:  "When 
these   truths  were  felt   at   heart,   there  was   no  vice  unre- 
formed.     Drunkenness,  the  darling  sin,  was  broken  off,  and 
scarce  an  instance  of  it  known  among  my  hearers  for  months 
together.      The   abusive    practice   of   husbands   and   wives 
putting  away  each  other,  and  taking  others  in  their  stead, 
was  quickly  reformed;  the  same  might  have  been  said  of  all 
other  vicious  practices."     "The  reformation  was  general,  and 
all  springing  from  the  internal  influence  of  divine  truths  upon 
their  hearts,  and  not  from  any  external  restraints,  or  because 
they  had  heard  these  vices  particularly  exposed  and  spoken 
against." 


20(5  THE  KEFORMER. 

In  this  simple  and  artless  recital  we  behold  the  secret  of 
genuine  reform.  It  must  spring  from  piety.  *  The  work  to 
which  we  have  made  reference  was  accomplished  through  the 
instrumentality  of  a  devoted  New  England  youth,  whose 
feeble  frame  sank  to  the  grave  in  his  thirtieth  year.  But  he 
had  solved  the  problem  which  for  ages  had  defied  a  conceited 
and  vain-glorious  philosophy. 

Few  men  of  thirty  years,  have  done  so  much  for  the 
welfare  of  mankind  as  Brainerd — few  men  of  thirty  years 

*  "  I  rejoice  much  to  find  that  this  shows  a  very  considerable  decrease, 
as  compared  with  previous  years.  I  do  believe  that  we  are  improving ; 
that  free  libraries,  and  cheap  concerts  and  lectures  for  the  people,  and 
working-men's  associations,  headed  by  so  many  Christian  ministers,  are 
beginning  to  tell.  Their  influence  is  already  felt — 1400  apprehensions 
fewer^this  year  than  last,  and  the  decrease  nearly,  if  not  entirely,  in  'the 
drunk  and  disorderly  cases.' " — Lectures  by  Rev.  Hugh  Stowell  Brown,  Li- 
verpool. 

Moral  Influence  of  the  Irish  Revival. — At  the  opening  of  the 
Quarter  Sessions  in  Coleraine,  on  January  *?,  the  Assistant  Barrister 
said:  "When  I  look  into  the  calendar  for  the  last  three  months,  and 
in  memory  look  back  on  calendars  that  came  before  me,  I  am  greatly 
struck  with  its  appearance  on  this  occasion.  During  the  entire  three 
months  which  have  passed  since  I  was  here  before,  I  find  that  but  one 
new  case  has  to  come  before  you,  and  one  which  is  in  some  respects 
very  unimportant.  As  I  said  before,  I  am  gi-eatly  struck  at  the  appear- 
ance of  this  calendar,  so  small  is  the  number  of  cases,  when  I  formerly 
had  calendars  filled  with  charges  for  different  nefarious  practices,  pocket- 
picking  and  larcenies  of  different  sorts.  Now  I  have  none  of  these,  I  am 
happy  to  say.  How  is  such  a  gratifying  state  of  things  to  be  accounted 
for  ?  It  must  be  from  the  improved  state  of  the  morality  of  the  people. 
I  believe  I  am  fully  warranted  now  to  say  that  to  nothing  else  than  the 
moral  and  religious  movement  which  commenced  early  last  summer  can 
the  change  be  attributed.  I  can  trace  the  state  of  your  calendar  to  no- 
thing  else.  It  is  a  matter  of  great  gratification  when  wc  see  the  people  of 
this  country  improving,  and  I  trust  that  no  temptations  of  any  sort  will 
arise  by  which  they  can  be  induced  to  forsake  the  paths  of  rectitude." 


THE  TWO  REFORMERS  IN  CONTRAST.  207 

have  done  so  much  for  its  injury  as  Shelley;  yet  both  were 
professed  Reformers,  and  as  they  are  now  brought  within  the 
limits  of  a  parallel,  we  cannot  avoid  reviewing  its  striking 
antithesis. 

A  fervent  New  England  youth,  sad-hearted  because  of  the 
misery  of  his  race,  consecrates  himself  to  the  work  of  its 
reformation.  He  possesses  a  small  patrimony,  and  his  feeble 
health  pleads  for  a  life  of  ease;  but  in  stern  self-denial  he 
renounces  all — devoting  even  his  estate  to  philanthropy. 
There  is  something  sublime  in  this  purpose,  but  he  appears 
devoid  of  all  consciousness  of  it;  he  is  consumed  by  the  flame 
of  sacrifice,  and  has  lost  himself  in  the  great  end  before  him. 
It  is  only  in  mediaeval  myths  that  we  find  this  devotion  sym- 
bolized, and  while  reading  the  heroic  tradition  which  Schiller 
has  immortalized,  we  seem  to  see  the  missionary  in  conflict 
with  Sin,  instead  of  the  knight  grappling  with  the  beast- 
fiend — and  in  either  case  the  palm  is  awarded,  not  to  prowess, 
but  humility.  Armed  by  this  purpose  the  youth  commences 
a  mission  among  the  savages.  He  is  alone — with  no  friend 
to  cheer— no  physician  to  prescribe,  and  no  home  to  ofier 

imrture  and  welcome.     His  habitation  is  a  squalid  wigwam 

his  bed  a  heap  of  straw — and  his  food  such  as  must  hasten  the 
disease  whose  fatal  grasp  is  upon  his  frame.  Now  commences 
the  marvellous  career,  in  four  years  to  terminate  in  the 
grave — in  which  alternates  incessant  preaching,  itineracy,  and 
exposure.  Beyond  all  previous  examples,  it  is  a  life  of 
prayer.  The  rude  settler  of  the  frontier  is  occasionally 
startled  to  see  the  wan  and  emaciated  youth  emerging  from 
the  forest — his  countenance  overcast  with  a  tender  melancholy, 
and  his  form  staggering  from  weakness — yet  his  determina- 
tion unwavering.     If  the  barbarian  of  the  Delaware  heed  not 


208  THE  KEFORMER. 

his  voice,  there  are  others  by  the  margin  of  the  Susquehanna 
who  may  incline  the  ear,  and  the  steep  and  pathless  moun- 
tains are  thrice  traversed,  in  what  appears  to  have  been 
fruitless  labor.     But  if  the  savage  of  the  Susquehanna  turn 
away,  his  red  brethren  in  the  Jerseys  may  prove  more  willing, 
and  thus,  through  three  years  of  buffeting  and  disappoint- 
ments, he  plies  each  field  with  the  only  remedy  for  sin.     The 
tender  passion,  too,  adds  interest  to  the  tale.     In  one  of  his 
visits  to  New  England,  the  missionary  had  seen  and  loved  a 
Puritan  maiden,  whose  vernal  loveliness  sets  off  rare  maturity 
of  mind,  and  whose  person  is  only  equalled  by  her  deep-toned 
piety.    Indeed,  her  exquisite  character  has  only  freshened  with 
the  lapse  of  a  century,  and  the  traditions  of  old  Northampton 
unite  in  her  the  serene  beauty  and  grace  of  Sarah  Pierrepont 
and  the  intellect  of  Jonathan  Edwards.     Of  such  parentage 
snrang   Jerusha,  the  betrothed  of  David   Brainerd,  whose 
entwining  memories  hallow  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut. 
Yet  such  an  one  could  he  sacrifice,  and  in  this  spirit  he  thus 
writes  in  his  journal:  "I  was  constrained,  and  yet  chose  to 
say,  'farewell,  friends  and  earthly  comforts — the  dearest  of 
them  all — the  very  dearest,  if  the  Lord  calls  for  it — adieu ! 
adieu!     I  will  spend  my  life,  to  my  latest  moments,  in  caves 
and  dens  of  the  earth,  if  the  Kingdom  of  Christ  may  thereby 
be  advanced.'  " 

But  at  last,  all  New  England  is  astounded  by  tidings  of 
his  success,  and  that  too,  to  a  degree  beyond  all  hope  and 
expectation;  the  savages  have  been  Christianized;  a  town, 
school  and  church  have  been  established — the  work  of  reform 
has  been  complete. 

And  now,  worn  out  and  prostrate,  the  dying  philanthropist 
is  brought  by   slow  stages  to  Northampton,  and  Jerusha 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  REFORMERS.  209 

ministers  to  her  beloved  during  the  last  and  most  precious 
hours.  ^  For  five  months  he  seems  to  anticipate  the  new  song, 
and  then  the  Euthanasia  ceased.  The  faded  leaf  of  autumn 
strewed  his  new-made  grave,  and  amid  the  winter's  snow, 
Jerusha  was  laid  by  his  side. 

Had  the  benighted  poet  met  the  example  of  the  mission- 
ary, it  would  have  no  doubt  constrained  his  admiration,  and 
perhaps  his  homage.  Here,  indeed,  he  would  have  seen  the 
success  of  that  mission  which  he  vainly  sought  to  accomplish 
through  error,  and  the  noble  stanza  which  closes  the  Prome- 
theus so  illustrates  this,  that  with  the  omission  of  one  line 
and  the  substitution  of  a  single  name,  we  may  read  it  thus : 

"To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks' infinite ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night ; 

jld  ^  »^  *tt  .^  jLfi  .alt  ^ft 

To  love  and  bear ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates, 
From  its  own  wreck,  the  thing  it  contemplates^ 

Neither  to  change,  nor  flatter,  nor  repent; 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Brainerd!  is  to  be 
Good,  great,  joyous,  beautiful,  and  free — 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire  and  Victory." 

Such,  then,  is  the  contrast  between  the  Reformers — the  one 
representing  Truth,  the  other  Error.  The  one  crowned  by 
success — the  other  perishing  amid  the  wreck  of  his  schemes. 
But  not  ceasing  here,  it  extends  even  to  the  grave.  The 
missionary  and  his  betrothed  were  laid  side  by  side  among 
generations  of  departed  saints;  here  he  is  enshrined  amid 
memories  which  time  only  strengthens,  and  here,  in  the 
pure  atmosphere  of  New  England,  he  receives  the  tribute  of 
the  Christian  world.  The  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
smitten  as  bv  the  hand  of  that  God  whom  he  had  disowned. 


210  THE  REFORMER. 

and  hurled  into  eternity  aniid  the  tempest's  howl.  Then  the 
sea  gives  up  its  dead  to  a  resurrection  of  fire,  and  at  last  a 
little  group  bear  the  ashes  to  Rome.  There,  in  the  strong- 
hold of  Papal,  as  it  once  was  of  Pagan,  superstition — there, 
where  error  has  for  ages  spread  its  shadow — where  persecu- 
tion has  poured  its  fury  upon  the  saints,  and  where  all  is 
stagnant,  and  the  very  air  is  redolent  of  age  and  decay — the 
Atheist  exile  finds  a  place  in  "  the  congregation  of  the  dead."  * 
After  such  irrefragable  proofs  of  the  power  of  Christianity 
to  cure  social  evil,  let  Infidelity  no  longer  utter  opposition  or 
contumely;  still  less  let  it  thrust  upon  us  its  schemes  as  a 
substitute  for  God's  remedy  for  human  misery.  With  all 
proper  sympathy  for  its  misguided  apologists,  we  cannot 
repress  the  voice  of  indignation,  nor  withhold  the  stern 
rebuke  of  Holy  Writ,  "Woe  unto  them  that  call  evil  good, 
and   good  evil;    that  put  bitter  for  sweet,  and  sweet  for 

bitter;  that  put  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness."  f 
********* 

In  the  spring  of  1822  we  find  the  family  of  the  poet  refor- 
mer sharing  with  the  Williams'  the  lonely  Villa.  Magni.  It 
was  situated  on  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia — a  place  of  solitude, 
whose  desolate  landscape  is  set  off  by  the  grandeur  of  the 
changing  sea,  which  opens  upon  the  west  in  almost  boundless 
expanse.  "  Had  we  been  wrecked  on  the  South  Sea,"  writes 
Mrs.  Shelley,  "we  could  scarcely  have  felt  ourselves  farther 
from  civilization  and  comfort."  Reviewing  the  maze  of 
their  wanderings,  we  find  them  driven  from  Rome  by  the 
death  of  Willie,  and  sojourning  at  Leghorn  during  the  follow- 

*  Proverbs,  21-16.     "The  man  that  wandereth  out  of  the  way  of  un- 
derstanding shall  remain  in  the  congregation  of  the  dead." 
f  Isaiah,  5-20. 


-:•' .'■ih,>"f^=^^i~.  ~^==^^, 


Shelley's  grave  at  rome. 


LIFE  AT  YILLA  MAGNI.  211 

inw  summer,  while  autumn  beheld  them  at  Florence.  Pisa 
attracted  them  next,  and  though  they  removed  thence  to 
Leghorn,  it  was  only  to  quickly  return.  Indeed,  Pisa  became 
the  place  of  their  longest  residence,  since  the  whole  of  the 
next  year  was  passed  either  in  the  city  or  in  its  vicinity.  Thus 
the  poet  writes  his  wife:  "Our  roots  never  struck  so  deep  as 
at  Pisa,  and  the  transplanted  tree  flourishes  not.  People  who 
lead  the  lives  which  we  led  until  last  winter  are  like  a  family 
of  Wahabee  Arabs,  pitching  their  tent  in  London;"  and  then 
he  adds,  in  reference  to  the  need  of  a  home,  "We  must  do 
one  thiiiir  or  the  other — for  ourselves — for  our  child — fur 
existence." 

As  we  view  him  at  the  Villa  Magni,*  in  his  thirtieth  year, 
we  little  dream  that  the  last  days  of  life's  fitful  fever  are 
drawing  nigh.  Though  so  young,  he  had  achieved  a  place  in 
the  highest  rank  of  bards,  and  notwithstanding  his  vicissitudes, 
the  past  six  years  had  yielded  a  rich  effusion  of  beautiful 
though  mystic  verse,  besides  the  longer  poems  on  which  his 
flime  chiefly  rests.  Upon  a  retrospect  of  his  whole  life,  the 
only  hours  of  comparative  quiet  which  cheer  its  troublous 
history,  are  found  at  Pisa,  and  the  Ode  to  the  Skylark  shows 
the  flight  of  a  mind  for  a  little  time  unfettered.  He  had 
formed  a  limited  range  of  friendship,  and  the  tragedy  which 

*  "  He  dwelt  beside  me  near  the  sea, 

And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet, 
When  the  waves,  beneatli  the  starlight,  flee 

O'er  the  yellow  sands,  with  silver  feet, 

And  talked — our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet, 
Till  slowly  fi-om  his  mien  there  passed 

The  desolation  which  it  spoke, 
And  smiles — as  when  the  lightning's  blast 

Has  parched  some  Heaven-delighting  oak." 

Shelley. — Rosalind  and  Helen. 


212  THE  REFORMER. 

clouded  the  past  was  losing  its  dark  hues  through  sympathy 
for  liis  misfortunes  and  admiration  of  his  genius.  His  hist 
marriage  proved  more  congenial  than  the  first,  and  in  point 
of  intellect  the  second  wife  was  vastly  superior  to  her  whcjux 
she  had  supplanted;  yet,  accepting  their  own  views,  even  this 
union  could  have  been  dissolved  at  any  time,  when  superior 
attractions  should  interfere.  Without  detracting  from  that 
affection  which  seems  to  have  graced  it,  it  may  be  suggested 
that  one  feature  in  its  strength  was  their  loneliness ;  and  thus 
sojourning  in  strange  and  repelling  communities,  they  were 
held  in  mutual  and  kindly  dependance.  His  character, 
naturally  so  kind,  still  bore  a  philanthropic  tone,  and  his 
apologists  often  refer  to  this  as  an  amply  redeeming  feature. 
We  would  not  disturb  the  mantle  which  Charity  thus  throws 
over  the  erring,  were  it  possible  for  one  virtue  to  expunge 
his  early  stains,  or  to  atone  for  a  defence  of  adultery,  or  a  war 
on  Christianity.  In  such  a  coimexion  the  term  philanthropist 
becomes  a  solecism. 

"  But  one  sad  losel  stains  a  name  for  aye, 

However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  cottined  clay, 

Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  words  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime." 

It  is  one  of  the  most  frequent  apologies  for  Infidelity,  that 
moral  worth  is  found  in  its  ranks,  or  in  other  words,  that 
tliey  are  not  all  equally  monstrous  with  the  Paines  and 
Voltaires,  who  lead  her  van.  But  it  is  not  denied  that  some  of 
the  virtues  may  sustain  life,  even  in  the  chill  atmosphere  of 
unbelief,  like  the  flower,  dwarfed  yet  persistent,  at  the  base  of 
the  glacier.  The  surrounding  influence  of  the  Gospel  often 
restrains  the  havoc  commenced  on  the  moral  nature,  and 


COMPLAINTS  OF  A  GRIEVED  SPIRIT.  2J3 

exercises  an  unporceived  protection.  This  will  both  explain 
and  answer  the  claims  of  this  pseudo  morality — and  yet  we 
willingly  admit  their  full  weight,  for  highwaymen  have  some- 
times been  generous  to  the  poor,  and  even  assassins  have 
boasted  of  honesty. 

The  poet's  abode  at  Pisa  afforded  frequent  reunions  with 
Byron,  whose  sensual  temperament  was  in  marked  con- 
trast with  the  abstinent  frame  and  the  sublimated  intellect  o. 
the  Reformer.  But  if  we  seek  the  secret  of  their  friendship, 
it  might  be  found,  indeed,  in  that  very  contrast,  and  in  the 
mutual  excitement  of  extremes  brought  into  occasional  colli- 
sion. To  this  may  be  added,  as  a  clearer  explanation  of  so 
strange  a  harmony  between  conflicting  habits  of  life  and 
thought,  that  both  were  exiles,  on  whom  public  opinion  had 
laid  its  withering  ban — both,  too,  were  shrouded  in  unbelief; 
and  where  shall  we  find  a  magnetism  like  that  of  misfor- 
tune'? 

The  pleasuz'cs  of  Italian  life,  to  which  years  ago,  while  in 
England,  they  had  so  hopefully  looked  forward,  had  now  been 
exhausted  by  the  Shelleys,  yet  they  had  failed  to  fill  that 
aching  void  which  piety  alone  can  remove.  Sorrow  and 
disappointment  still  follow*ed  sin,  and  even  Italy  could  afford 
no  balm.  Does  not  this  explain  this  record  of  continuous 
change?  Yet  these  vicissitudes  did  not  afford  escape  fi-om 
the  pursuit  of  calumny,  and,  wounded  by  its  relentless  shafts, 
the  poet  thus  pours  out  his  misery  to  his  wife :  "  When  I  hear 
of  such  things,  my  patience  and  my  philosophy  are  put  to  a 
severe  proof,  while  I  refrain  from  seeking  some  obscure 
place,  where  the  countenance  of  man  may  never  meet  me 
anymore.  *  *  *  Imagine  my  despair  of  good;  imagine  how 
it  is  impossible  that  one  of  so  weak  and  sensitive  a  nature  as 


214  THE  REFoiniEn. 

mine,  can  run  further  the  gauntlet  through  this  hellish  society 
of  man." 

Again :  "  Aly  greatest  comfort  would  be  utterly  to  desert  all 
human  society ;  I  would  retire  with  you  and  our  children  to  a 
solitary  island  in  the  sea;  would  build  a  boat,  and  shut  upon 
my  retreat  the  floodgates  of  the  world.  I  would  read  no 
reviews — 1  would  talk  with  no  authors.  If  I  dared  trust  my 
imagination,  it  would  tell  me  that  there  are  one  or  two  chosen 
companions  besides  yourself,  whom  I  should  desire.  But  to 
this  I  would  not  listen.  Where  two  or  thi'ce  are  gathered 
together,  the  devil  is  among  them." 

Such  expressions  do  not  surprise  us.  Christianity  is  the 
only  condition  which  admits  of  pure  and  peaceful  society,  and 
the  wanderers  from  her  genial  influence  will  find  no  rest,  even 
for  the  sole  of  the  foot.  Shelley,  while  denying  the  great 
facts  of  sin  and  depravity,  found  himself  pierced  by  the  evil 
tongues  and  the  bitter  passions  which  they  engender.  And 
yet  every  move  seems  one  farther  from  the  truth,  and  Athe- 
ism holds  its  victim  in  still  stronger  embrace,  for  in  a  letter 
to  his  publisher  (dated  1820)  he  says:  "I  was  immeasurably 
amused  by  the  quotation  from  Schlegi'l,  about  the  way  the 
popular  faith  is  destroyed:  first  the  Devil;  then  the  Holy 
Ghost ;  then  God  the  Father.  I  had  written  a  Lucianic  essay 
to  prove  the  same  thing." 

While  thus  sneering  at  that  religion  whicli  is  tlie  only 
source  of  peace,  the  poet  felt  the  dreary  desolation  of  a  heart 
unsatisfied,  and  yearning  for  rest,  and  ever  crying  out,  "who 
will  show  us  any  good?"  Alluding  to  fame  and  wealth,  in 
(tiic  of  his  letters,  he  exclaims,  "I  once  sought  something 
better  and  nobler  than  either;  but  I  might  as  well  have 
reached  at  the  moon."     While  his  wife  writes  in  her  journal: 


THE  PHANTOM'S  REPROOF.  215 

"  What  a  mart  this  world  is!  Feelings,  sentiments,  more  in- 
valuable than  gold  or  precious  stones,  are  the  coin;  and  what 
is  bought?  Contempt,  discontent,  and  disappointment,  if 
^indeed  the  mind  be  not  loaded  with  drearier  memories." 
The  unrest  of  an  active  mind,  wandering  from  the  truth, 
and  vainly  seeking  satisfaction  and  repose,  seems  illustrated 
by  one  of  those  impressive  dreams  to  which  he  was  subject. 
A  figure  appeared  at  his  bed-side,  and  beckoned  him.  He 
followed  the  phantom  into  the  saloon,  when  it  lifted  the  hood 
of  its  mantle,  and  exclaimed,  as  it  vanished,  ^'siete  sodis 
fatloV'  ("are  you  satisfied?")  Admitting  this  to  have  been 
merely  an  illusion,  arising  from  the  exquisite  sensitiveness 
of  his  nervous  system,  there  was  still  a  significance  in  that 
utterance,  which  might  have  startled  him  from  his  abstrac- 
tions. Was  he  satisfied?  Was  there  not  in  his  bosom  a 
ceaseless  panting,  which  rebuked  his  Atheist  words,  and 
sobbed  in  secret  for  God?  Was  there  not  a  hunger  devour- 
ing  him,  which  he  vainly  strove  to  appease  with  the  meat  that 
perisheth !  O,  from  those  hidden  chambers  of  anguish — from 
that  heart  so  long  a  stranger  to  peace,  there  must  have  rolled 
up  "de  profundis" — the  awful  confession.  How  could  ho  be 
satisfied,  while  spurning  the  bread  of  life  and  battening  a  lofty 
soul  on  the  husks  of  an  empty  philosophy?  Here  one  may 
see  by  contrast  the  power  of  Augustine's  touching  ejaculation, 
"  Lord,  thou  hast  formed  us  for  thyself,  and  we  are  disquieted 
till  we  come  to  thee!"  Disquieted,  indeed!  The  poet  was 
but  proving  the  words  of  Holy  Writ:  "the  wicked  are  like 
the  troubled  sea;"  he  was  only  showing  that  vast  unrest 
which  renders  even  the  unhappiness  of  our  race  sublime.  It 
was  no  doubt  this  very  desolation,  caused  by  that  yearning 
for  himself,  as  the  chief  good  which  God  has  implanted  in  the 


21G  THE  REFORMER. 

soul,  which   prompted   an   impressive   assent  to  a  remark 

uttered  by  Leigh  Hunt.     During  their  reunion  at  Pisa,  a  few 

days  before  the  poet's  death,  they  were  standing  together  in 

the  Cathedral,  listening  to  the  exquisite  melody  of  the  organ, 

when  the  former,  rapt  by  its  pathos,  exclaimed  that  "  a  divine 

religion  might  be  found  out,  if  Charity  were  really  made  the 

principle  of  it,  instead  of  Faith."     Strangely  indeed  does  such 

a  remark  appear  in  the  communings  of  two  Englishmen  of 

the  nineteenth  century,  when  charity  and  faith  were  so  united 

in  the  religion  of  their  fatherland,  that  if  the  latter  be  its 

foundation,  the  former  is  its  moving  principle. 

********* 

The  closing  scenes  of  Villa  Magni  now  crowd  upon  us,  and 
with  unpitying  haste  precipitate  the  fatal  hour;  yet  how 
many  blandishments  herald  its  approach,  and  deck  it  with 
treacherous  promise !  The  villa  received  the  united  fiimilies 
of  the  Shelleys  and  Williams'  about  the  first  of  May,  and  in 
a  fortnight  arrived  the  shallop,  whose  voyages  were  to  be 
their  summer's  delight.  The  exhilaration  of  the  sea  gave  the 
poet  new  inspiration,  and  by  a  strange  contrast  "The  Triumph 
of  Life"  was  indited  during  romantic  excursions  upon  the 
mirrored  waters  which  were  so  impatient  for  his  death. 
Eight  weeks  had  fled,  like  a  dream,  when  the  arrival  of  Leigh 
Hunt  at  Leghorn  summoned  the  lonely  mariners  of  Villa 
Magni  to  the  happiest  of  voyages. 

On  the  first  of  July,  their  shallop,  the  "Don  Juan,"  spread 
its  sails,  and  bidding  their  families  a  farewell,  which  none 
dreamed  to  be  the  last,  the  two  husbands  essayed  a  mission 
of  welcome  to  their  countryman.  The  poet  passed  a  few 
happy  days  with  the  friend  of  his  early  years,  and  in  the  joys 
of  restored  friendship  they  journeyed  together  to  Pisa,  where 


EEUNION  WITH  BYRON.  217 

they  partook  of  the  hospitality  of  Byron.  In  seven  days  the 
Don  Juan  commenced  its  hist  voyage— the  brief  remiion  was 
over — and  leaving  Leigh  Hunt  and  Byron,  to  meet  only 
about  their  funeral  pile,  the  two  friends  sought  their  home. — 
That  home  they  were  never  to  behold  again.  The  hour  of 
doom  was  at  hand.  At  three  in  the  afternoon  they  com- 
menced a  voyage,  which  ended  in  shipwreck  before  seven.  It 
is  supposed  that  in  the  fury  of  the  gale  the  shallop  was  run 
down  by  a  felucca. 

It  is  quite  remarkable  that  many  of  those  who  have 
described  the  perils  of  the  ocean  with  the  highest  power  have 
subsequently  perished  in  them,  and  realized  the  fulness  of 
those  horrors  which  their  imagination  had  attempted.  Fal- 
coner, who  painted  the  prolonged  terrors  of  the  shipwreck,  in 
such  graphic  numbers,  was  at  last  a  cast-away,  and  the  poet's 
bones  now  rest  in  some  calm  recess,  far  below  the  heaving 
billow.  Elliot  Warburton  described  in  terrific  vividness  the 
burning  of  a  ship  at  sea,  and  then  perished,  amid  similar 
horrors,  in  that  ill-fated  steamer,  Amazon,  which,  with  nearly 
all  its  passengers,  was  lost  by  fire,  on  the  passage  from 
England  to  tlie  West  Indies.  Shelley  delighted  in  describing 
the  conflicts  of  the  elements,  and  in  one  of  his  fragments, 
"A  Vision  of  the  Sea,"  portrays  the  awful  scenes  of  a  ship- 
wreck with  an  inspiration  which  seemed  to  forecast  his 
aj)proaching  fate. 

"  Dim  mirrors  of  ruin  hang  gleaming  about, 
While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars — hke  a  rout 
Of  death  flames — like  whirlpools  of  fire-flowing  iron — 
While  splendor  and  terror  the  black  ship  environ — 
Or  like  sulphur-flakes  hurled  from  a  mine  of  pale  fire, 
Its  fountains  spout  o'er  it     In  many  a  spire 

10 


2-18  THE  REFORMER. 

Tlie  pyramid  billows,  with  white  points  of  biine, 
In  the  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly  shine, 
As  piercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the  sea, 
The  great  ship  seems  sphtting.     »        *        » 

A  long,  loud,  hoarse  cry 
Bursts  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremendously ; 
And  'tis  borne  down  the  mountainous  vale  of  the  wave, 
Rebounding  like  thunder  from  crag  to  cave." 

And  these  awful  phenomena,  which  dwelt  thus  vividly  in  his 
day-dreams,  awaited  the  hour  of  doom;  and  on  that  fatal 
voyage  all  the  limuings  of  the  pen,  and  all  the  weird  flights 
of  the  imagination,  were  transcended  by  the  wild  conflicts  of 
wind  and  wave,  until  his  weltering  corpse  was  rocked  amid 
the  maddened  surges. 

Was  that  storm  inspired  by  the  pale  wraith  of  the  forsaken 
Harriet? 

Alas!  poor  Shelley! 


BOOK    FIFTH. 


THE     TRIBUNAL. 


"But  of  this  cursed  crew 
The  punishment  to  other  hands  belongs — 
A^'engeance  is  IIis,  or  whose  He  sole  appoints. 

Stand  only  and  behold 
God's  indignation  on  the  godless  poured." 

Paradise  Lost. 


THE    TRIBUNAL. 


THE  love  of  justice  is  a  part  of  our  consciousness.  No 
instance  of  its  entire  privation  is  on  record.  It  is  as 
strong  in  the  child  as  it  is  in  the  man  of  years.  This  fact  is 
one  of  the  most  satisfactory  proofs  of  the  Justice  of  God. 
The  Creator  has  stamped  his  image  upon  man,  his  highest 
work,  and  sin  has  not  effected  its  entire  obliteration. 

The  abuse  of  power,  the  bribery  of  the  judiciary,  and  the 
injustice  which  the  strong  inflict  upon  the  weak,  are  among 
the  chief  abominations  of  the  earth,  endured  by  the  Almighty 
for  a  time  with  much  long  suffering,  only  to  meet  the  greater 
condemnation.  Hence  the  Scriptures  brand  injustice  with 
deepest  infamy.  In  the  palmy  days  of  ancient  Israel,  its  king, 
the  wisest  of  his  line,  as  well  as  the  most  equitable,  thus 
denounced  it:  "Moreover,  I  saw  under  the  sun  the  place  of 
judgment,  that  wickedness  was  there;"*  and  in  a  later  day 
the  unjust  judge  escaped  not  the  eye  of  our  Saviour,  who 
marked  him  as  one  "  who  feared  not  God,  neither  regarded 
man."f    The  impartial  administration  of  justice  stands  j^re- 

*  Ecclesiastes,  3-16.  f  Luke,  18-2. 


222  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

eminent  among  the  fruits  of  Christianity,  and  while  the  Bible 
utters  its  scathing  rebuke  of  the  oppressor,  true  piety  not 
only  promotes  equitable  legislation,  but  demands  from  the 
judiciary  strict  impartiality  in  its  award. 

It  is  true  that  Hume  sneers  at  the  Pentateuch,  because  its 
moral  precepts  occupied  proportionately  so  small  a  space  in 
its  pages;  but  while  yielding  full  play  to  the  sneer,  which 
may  be  expected  whenever  argument  is  impossible,  it  may 
be  asked,  are  not  these  precepts  capable  of  infinite  applica- 
tion? Do  they  not  establish  the  administration  of  Justice 
free  from  any  influence  save  Mercy?  It  will  be  found  on 
examination,  that  by  this  ancient  code  punishments  were 
limited  so  as  to  prevent  revenge  or  excessive  cruelty.  *  The 
bribe,  the  bane  of  modern  legislation,  and  even  the  gift  was 
forbidden,  lest  it  should  indirectly  touch  the  poised  scales, 
"for  a  gift  doth  blind  the  eye."  •(•  So  cai'efully  was  equity 
secured  to  the  humblest  of  the  commonwealth,  that  it  was 
illegal  to  withhold  the  wages  of  the  laborer  even  beyond  the 
setting  san;  J  M'hile  hospitality  to  the  stranger — kindness  to 
the  gleaner — and  above  all,  protection  to  the  widow  and 
orphan,  were  enforced  by  especial  enactments.  It  is  not 
uncommon  to  hear  the  ignorant  and  conceited  rail  at  the 
Mosaic  code,  yet  where,  in  the  above  particulars,  has  that 
code  been  equalled?  And  whatever  be  its  apparent  defects 
or  peculiarities,  it  exhibits  an  appreciation  of  justice,  not  only 
wanting  to  those  of  Solon  and  Lycurgus,  but  also  to  those  of 
some  modern  nations. 

In  her  attacks  upon  the  Christian  religion,  Infidelity  has 
continually  urged  its  higher  rectitude,  and  its  deeper 
sympathy.     It   is  wont  to  falsely  charge  upon  Christianity 

*  Exodus,  22  &  23  chap,     f  Dcutcrouomy,  16-19.     X  Leviticus,  19-13. 


PRETENCES  OF  INFIDELITY.  223 

those  social  wrongs  with  which  the  Latter  has  so  long  grappled, 
and  which  she  will  yet  abolish;  and  during  this  protracted 
conflict  is  heard  the  frequent  challenge,  "  Give  place  to  us  and 
our  schemes,  and  you  shall  behold  a  golden  reign  of  the 
virtues,  in  which  Justice  shall  lead  Peace  and  Happiness  in 
either  hand."  We  seem  once  more  to  hear  the  voice  of 
Absalom,  who  said,  moreover,  "  Oh  that  I  were  made  Judge 
in  the  land,  that  every  man  which  hath  any  suit  or  cause 
might  come  unto  me,  and  I  would  do  him  justice."  It  may 
therefore  not  be  improper  to  here  exhibit  the  character  of  these 
vauntings  by  a  brief  review  of  a  Tribunal  which  was  estab- 
lished in  the  palmiest  day  of  Atheism,  and  which  represented 
the  Themis  of  unbelief,  at  a  time  when  the  Decade*  was  sub- 
stituted in  place  of  the  abrogated  Sabbath,  and  the  Goddess 
of  Reason  was  receiving  Divine  honors. 

The  French  Revolution  is  the  most  obscure  episode  of 
modern  history.  It  is  a  great  deep,  where,  though  many 
have  made  soundings,  but  few  have  accomplished  satis- 
factory explorations.  Rarely  did  its  master  spirits  survive 
to  narrate  the  scenes  through  which  they  had  passed,  and 
even  then  it  was  with  a  brain  confused  by  the  memory 
of  their  horrors.  Those  scenes,  too,  followed  each  other  in 
rapid  and  startling  succession — each  one  of  such  surpassing 
shock  as  to  deaden  the  impression  of  the  past.  Yet  history, 
though  appalled  at  the  task,  has  attempted  their  recital ;  brief 
records  have  been  discovered — the  extemporaneous  data  of 
these  eventful  years — strangely  preserved,  now  unfold  their 
testimony,  and  notwithstanding  the  conflict  of  statement  and 

*  The  Assembly  decreed  that  instead  of  the  Christian  Sabbath,  one 
day  in  ten  should  be  set  apart  for  amusement;  and  this  decree  remained 
in  force  until  repealed  by  Napoleon, 


224  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

opinion,  the  results  of  patient  investigation  command  our 
confidence. 

The  files  of  the  Moniteur  preserve  the  daily  record  of  debate 
and  events,  and  present  a  complete  view  of  affairs  in  the 
details  of  journalism.  These,  while  too  voluminous  for  any 
but  the  student,  afford  a  field  of  interesting  research,  and  the 
columns  which  once  were  perused  amid  the  palpitation  and 
horror  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  have  unfolded  to  us  their  dread 
recital  in  the  calm  alcoves  of  the  library. 

Supposing  our  readers  to  be  acquainted  with  the  general 
history  of  the  scenes  into  which  we  are  entering,  we  will 
simply  remind  them  of  the  various  relations  subsisting  be- 
tween those  powers  which  ruled  Paris  and  the  nation.  Tlio 
machinery  of  the  Revolution  appears  to  have  been  of  a  four- 
fold character.     Thus  we  have: 

First. — The  Jacobin  Club,  whose  ferocity  intimidated  and 
controlled  the  Convention. 

Second. — The  National  Convention,  consisting  of  two  con- 
flicting factions — the  Girondins  and  the  Mountain — the  latter 
of  which  derived  most  of  its  strength  from  its  identity  with 
the  Jacobin  Club. 

Third. — The  Tribunal,  of  which  we  purpose  to  treat  in 
these  pages. 

Fourth.— The  Guillotine. 

The  question  of  capital  punishment  had,  during  the  early 
days  of  the  Revolution,  been  debated  at  length;  its  abolition 
had  been  moved  by  the  committee  charged  with  the  subject, 
but  the  report  was  lost.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  voice 
heard  most  earnestly  in  opposition  to  the  shedding  of  blood, 
under  any  pretext  whatever,  was  that  of  Maximilian  Robes- 
pierre.    Capital  punishment  having  been  retained,  its  method 


DR.  GUILLOTIN  AND  HIS  PLANS.  225 

brcaiuc  an  importiiiit  ip,cstion.  Dciith  by  the  c\»nl  Irfl  a 
lasting  stigma,  and  the  great  iiurubers  who  had  suffered  a  la 
lanlerne,  made  it  expedient  to  abandon  any  memorial  of  those 
miserable  victims. 

Decapitation  had  long  been  the  common  method  in  Europe, 
and  the  Convention,  when  passing  tlic  ponal  code,  adopted  it 
iu  1701,  at  the  same  time  prohibiting  torture  of  any  kind 
in  eoiHieetiou  with  it.  We  need  hardly  add  that  this  is  still 
Ihc  law  in  France.  The  method  having  thus  been  decided, 
the  next  desideratum  was  a  suitable  instrument.  The  sword 
was  for  many  reasons  ol)ji'('lionable,  and  no  fitting  substitute 
had  been  found,  while  in  the  mean  time  the  case  of  a  highway- 
man, already  sentenced,  demanded  a  settlement  of  the 
question. 

In  1781)  an  obscure  physician  had  been  elected  member  of 
th(!  National  Assembly  from  Paris,  J  lis  character  exhibited 
a  composition  of  vanity  and  assurance,  and  his  election  Avaa 
du(>,  not  so  much  to  merit  or  talent,  as  to  a  few  j)oj)ular 
jianiphlcts.  And  yet,  obscure  and  oven  eontcnipliltle  as  was 
his  position  and  cliaracter,  his  name  has  won  an  unenviable 
Ijiiiie,  Tliis  man  was  Dr.  (luillotiu.  lie  made  some  attempts 
iit  notoriety  by  introducing  such  schemes  as  might  grow  out 
of  his  [Jiofcssion,  for  the  benefit  of  t  lie  common  Weal.  Among 
other  cpiestions  he  agitated  that  of  capital  punislnnent — pro- 
posing, as  a  s>d)stitute  for  the  gallows,  decapitation  by  a 
machine,  while  all  i-eproach  which  might  i\\\\  on  the  relali\cs 
of  tin-  cul|)i-it  was  to  be  forbidden  by  law.  Ills  projjosition, 
however,  receive(l  but  little  attention  from  the;  Assi-mbl^-, 
and  though  dcbntcil  to  a  small  extent,  was  not  printed. 
However,  tJie  doctoi'  afforded  the  Convention  no  small  ainuse- 
ment  by  a  dest'rij)tion   of  the   instrunuMit    lie   had   in   vievr'. 


226  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

exclaiming:  "Now,  with  my  machine  I  strike  off  your  head, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  you  never  feel  it" — a  fate 
which  some  of  his  smiling  hearers  subsequently  met.  On 
this  occasion,  the  Abbe'  Maury  made  objection  against  the 
mode  of  punishment  {decapitation),  "because  it  might  tend  to 
deprave  the  people,  by  familiarizing  them  with  the  sight  of 
blood ; "  but  as  no  one  could  foresee  the  ruddy  streams  of  the 
Place  de  la  Revolution,   the  objection  made  no  impression. 

Yet,  although  Dr.  Guillotin  was  thus  sanguine  as  to  the 
success  of  the  machine  which  he  proposed,  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  had  ever  constructed  a  model ;  his  ideas  had  no  doubt 
been  suggested  by  the  use  of  the  axe  in  other  countries. 
The  Scottish  Maiden  was  probably  the  original  which  lent  its 
image  to  his  mind,  for  the  guillotine  differs  but  little  from 
that  primitive  punishment,  while  machines  of  a  similar 
description  had  been  in  use  throughout  portions  of  Europe 
for  several  centuries.  But  such  an  instrument  had  never 
been  seen  in  Paris,  and  the  doctor  must  have  derived  his 
plan  from  some  prints  in  which  the  above  mentioned  instru- 
ments appear.  The  unfortunate  identity  of  his  name  arose 
from  a  few  satirical  verses  which  appeared  in  one  of  the 
Parisian  journals.  Thus  a  machine  to  facilitate  the  slaughter 
of  the  best  citizens  of  France  was  proposed,  and  even  desig- 
nated by  name,  three  years  before  its  terrible  service  Avas 
required;  and  the  title  thus  bestowed  in  derision  adhered, 
notwithstanding  a  subsequent  attempt  to  change  it  to  the 
Louison.  Monsieur  Louis  was  the  Secretary  of  the  College 
of  Surgeons,  and  had  presided  over  the  construction  of  the 
first  guillotine  ever  constructed  in  Paris,  but  the  pungent 
lampoon  had  done  its  work,  and  he  was  saved  the  infamy  of 
its  name.    It  is  commonly  reported  that  amid  the  vicissitudes 


THE  FIRST  GUILLOTINE.  227 

of  the  Revolution,  Guillotin  pei'ished  beneath  the  steel  he  had 
invented ;  but  this  is  incorrect.  He  sunk  into  his  original  ob- 
scurity, and  though  imprisoned  during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  he 
survived  its  perils  and  died  in  Paris  in  1814,  at  an  advanced  age. 

Three  years  had  elapsed  since  Guillotin's  first  proposition, 
and  now  the  abrogation  of  the  gallows  and  the  sentence  of  the 
highwayman  brought  the  Minister  of  Justice  to  the  doors  of 
the  Assembly.  The  Committee  charged  with  the  question 
consulted  Monsieur  Louis,  and  received  from  him  an  elabo- 
rate report.  In  this  no  reference  is  made  to  the  name  of 
Guillotin,  but  the  plan  of  a  machine  similar  to  his  is  given  at 
full  length,  and  to  this  he  adds :  "  It  is  easy  to  construct  such 
an  instrument,  of  which  the  effect  would  be  certain,  and  the 
decapitation  will  be  performed  in  an  instant,  according  to  the 
letter  and  spirit  of  the  new  law."  The  report  was  adopted, 
and  after  much  delay  and  some  change  of  workmen,  an  instru- 
ment was  made  by  an  artisan  named  Schmidt.  This  man,  as 
he  wrought  by  no  model,  may  be  considered  the  true  inventor 
of  this  terrible  machine ;  and  his  thrifty  forethought  contem- 
plated a  patent,  in  order  to  secure  to  himself  the  demand 
from  the  different  departments  of  the  nation. 

In  April,  1792,  the  new  machine  was  put  to  trial  in  the 
hospital  of  Blcetre,  on  several  dead  bodies,  with  such  success, 
that  in  less  than  a  week  the  unfortunate  highwayman,  the 
most  anxious  party  to  these  proceedings,  met  his  fate.  A 
few  unimportant  executions  revealed  the  capacities  of  the  new 
apparatus,  and  we  find  it  mentioned  in  the  public  prints  as 
the  "Guillotine,"  but  its  appearance  and  service  seem  to  have 
excited  but  little  thought.  So  for,  indeed,  from  being  a 
fixture  in  the  street,  as  it  subsequently  became,  it  was  only 
brought  out  for  the   occasion,  and   quietly  and  speedily   re 


228  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

moved.  None  could  imagine  the  use  which  would  be  made 
of  its  rapid  stroke  in  the  coming  mania  of  blood — none  could 
imagine  the  pale  crowds  which,  day  by  day,  were  to  pass 
under  its  reeking  steel.  Yet  there  it  stands,  patient,  yet 
relentless — biding  its  time. 

That  time  came  full  soon.  The  guillotine  had  hardly  been 
improved  to  its  full  capacity^  when  the  Tribunal  which  was  to 
afford  it  employment  was  called  into  existence.  The  tenth 
of  August  brought  the  crisis  between  contending  powers,  and 
the  tolling  of  the  bells  announced  the  upheaval  of  successful 
revolt.  Before  that  tolling  had  ceased.  Royalty  lay  at  the 
feet  of  the  once  despised  democracy,  and  the  two  great  parties 
of  the  Assembly  suspended  their  conflicts,  and  united  in 
bringing  the  royalists  to  the  block.  The  restive  populace 
now  thirsted  for  vengeance.  Robespierre,  no  longer  averse 
to  bloodshed,  demanded  it,  in  the  name  of  the  people,  under 
penalty  of  their  wrath. 

"  He  caught 
The  listening  crowd  by  his  wild  eloquence — 
His  cool  ferocity — that  persuaded  murder, 
Even  whilst  it  spoke  of  mercy ! " 

His  demand  specified  a  Tribunal  with  adequate  powers,  and 
the  Assembly  created  it.  The  Girondins,  cowed  by  their 
opponents,  united  with  them  in  establishing  a  power  which, 
with  singular  indifference  sent  not  only  royalists,  but  also 
both  Girondins  and  Jacobins  to  the  scaffold.  Thus  Vergniaud 
and  Brissot  rapidly  marched  in  the  footsteps  of  the  doomed 
and  degraded  Bourbon,  to  be  fdtllowed  in  turn  by  Danton  and 
Robespierre,  and  the  same  axe  was  plied  upon  each. 

The  Revolutionary  Tribunal  was  established  by  the  Legis- 
lative Assembly  on  the  ITlh  of  August,  1792 — its  express 


ITS  EARLY  VICTIMS.  229 

object  being  to  arraign  and  punish  the  royalists.     Its  work 
began   immediately,  yet  its  victims  were  at  first  few  and 
unimportant.     There  was,  beside  this,  some  show  of  justice 
and   mercy.      Two   or    three    were    really   acquitted,    but 
D'Angrement  suffered  on  the  26th  August,    for  enlisting, 
and  La  Porte,  convicted  of  counter-revolutionary  conspiracies, 
shared  the  same  fate,  two  days  afterward,  while  Durasoi, 
editor   of  the    Gazette,   was   executed    on   the   29th.      The 
approaching  election  soon  demanded  the  service  of  the  axe — 
it  was  a  wholesome  instrument  of  terror,  and  might  awe 
unruly  citizens  and  crush  a  threatened  opposition— but  the 
massacres  of  the  prisons  fully  served  that  end,  consuming 
the  very  pabulum  of  the  Tribunal.     Yet  still  it  was  not 
entirely  idle,  for  on  the  very  day  of  the  massacre,  it  con- 
demned two  men.     One  of  these  was  a  waggoner,  whose 
offence  was  the  exclamation,  while  in  the  pillory,  "  Vive  le 
Ho i !—  Vive  La  Fayette  !—a  fig  for  the  nation  !  "     The  other 
was  Cazotte,  an  aged  poet.     He  had  been  cast  in  prison- 
had  only  escaped  the  massacre  through  the  heroism  of  his 
daughter,  who  had  thrown  herself  between  the  assassins'  pikes 
and  his  defenceless  breast— but  having  been  again  arrested, 
the  new  Tribunal  proved  more  inexorable  than  the  mob,  and 
the  noble  daughter  might  have  found  her  fiither's  headless 
corpse  among  the  victims  of  the  axe. 

But  the  Tribunal  did  not  confine  itself, to  the  punishment 
of  political  offences.  The  massacres  in  the  prison  having 
for  a  time  left  it  quite  unemployed,  it  accepted  the  ordinary 
criminal  business  of  the  city,  and  continued  thus  engaged  with 
political  or  civil  misdemeanors,  until  the  first  of  December, 
when  it  was  suppressed,  after  an  existence  of  four  months. 
The  reason  of  tliis  suppression  has  never  been  discovered. 


230  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

The  decree  was  passed  at  a  time  of  stormy  debate,  prelimi- 
nary to  the  trial  of  the  king,  and  it  may  be  suggested  that 
fear  lest  either  party  should  obtain  the  control  of  so  terrible 
an  engine  induced  both  to  unite  in  its  suppression.  The 
whole  advantage,  however,  fell  on  the  side  of  the  Jacobins. 
On  the  tenth  of  March  they  extorted  a  decree  from  the  trem- 
bling Convention,  reviving  the  Tribunal,  with  unlimited  power. 

The  Revolutionary  Tribunal  proper  was,  therefore,  the 
second  of  those  extraordinary  institutions  which  bore  this 
name.*  The  Girondins  might  have  read  their  approach- 
ing doom  in  its  very  enactment,  for  the  storm  of  fiction  had 
continued  with  increased  intensity;  indeed,  although  suspen- 
ded for  a  time  by  the  trial  of  the  king,  it  had  revived  after 
his  death,  and  now  raged  with  all  the  fearful  energy  of 
despair.  It  was  a  struggle,  not  so  much  for  power  as  for  life, 
since  defeat  and  the  scaffold  were  now  inseparable. 

The  Girondins,  notwithstanding  their  majority,  failed  to 
cope  with  the  Jacobins,  who  swayed  the  masses,  and  held  at 
their  command  that  fiendish  mob  which  so  often  had  carried 
terror  to  the  benches.  In  a  few  weeks,  Danton  furiously 
urged  a  motion  for  their  arrest  and  condemnation,  and  the 
struggles  of  the  unfortunate  partisans  availed  nothing  when  in 
the  grasp  of  their  enemy. 

*  The  Tribunal  was  not  complete  at  first,  and  we  find  its  full  powers 
thus  expressed,  some  months  afterward :  "  La  Convention  Nationalc  sur 
la  presentation  que  lui  a  6t6  faite  par  ses  Commits  de  salut  public  et  de 
suretd  generale  de  la  liste  des  citoyen,  purposes  pour  completer  la  forma- 
tion des  quarto  section  du  Tribunal  Criminal  Extraordinaire  scant  a 
Paris,  adopte  la  liste  ainsi  qu'il  fut."  (Here  follows  the  list  of  officers.) — 
Monitcur,  Sept.  30,  1793.  The  author  would  state  that  a  portion  of 
this  ground  has  been  gone  over  by  a  modern  reviewer — vide  London 
Quarferli/y  vol.  73. 


THE  TRIBUNAL  IN  ITS  DETAILS.  231 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  one  the  most  fearful  conflicts  in  the 
Convention^-(we  cannot  call  it  debate) — that  Danton  moved 
the  reconstruction  of  the  old  Tribunal,  with  increased  powers, 
such  as  might  enable  it  to  try  and  condemn  all  traitors,  con- 
spirators, and  counter-revolutionists,  without  appeal.  The 
Tribunal  thus  established  consisted  of  two  Courts,  which  were 
provided  with  double  sets  of  judges  and  juries,  to  sit  in  turn, 
in  order  that  no  time  might  be  lost.  To  form  a  Court  one 
president,  two  assistant  judges,  and  twelve  jurymen  were 
necessary.  The  former  were  appointed  by  the  Committee  on 
Government,  the  latter  were  drafted  by  lot  from  a  general 
list,  furnished  in  proportion  by  each  Department  of  the 
Republic.  Judge  and  jurymen  received,  equal  pay,  which 
was  the  same  as  that  enjoyed  by  the  members  of  the  Assem- 
bly— eighteen  francs  per  day — while  the  president  and  accu- 
sateur  received  double.  This  establishment,  at  first  view, 
bears  a  semblance  of  equity,  which  soon  disappears  on  exami- 
nation. It  could  be  turned  with  great  facility  into  a  partisan 
machine,  and  this  is  proven  by  the  fact  that  the  clause 
concerning  the  selection  of  the  jury  was  disregarded  from  the 
beginning.  The  excuse  urged  for  this  was  the  want  of  time 
to  make  selections  from  the  Departments,  and  the  jury  was 
supplied  the  appointment  of  a  list  of  Parisian  Jacobins,  con- 
cerning whom  it  has  been  stated  that  many  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  and  that  some  were  habitually  intoxicated  during 
the  discharge  of  their  duties.  As  this  list  could  not  afford  a 
full  supply  of  jurors,  a  decree  was  subsequently  passed, 
legalizing  juries  of  seven,  and  at  last,  disdaining  even  the 
appearance  of  impartiality,  these  were  appointed  by  the 
Committee,  or  selected  by  the  prosecutor.  The  highest 
qualification  demanded  in  important  cases  was  that  ferocious 
zeal  by  which  some  were  distinguished. 


232  THE  TRIBUNAL 

Both  Courts  of  tliis  fearful  Tribunal  sat  in  the  Palais  de 
Justice.  Prisoners  at  first  were  tried  singly,  but  as  their 
numbers  increased,  the  single  seat  was  changed  for  rows  of 
benches,  in  graduated  ascent;  and  which  were  extended  from 
time  to  time  until  twenty,  fifty  and  even  sixty  were  tried  at 
once;  and  at  last  a  huge  scaffold  was  erected,  on  which  two 
hundred  prisoners  might  be  arraigned  at  the  same  time.  On 
such  collective  trials  the  public  accuser  might  designate  any 
one  whom  he  chose  among  the  prisoners,  as  the  leader  in  the 
alleged  and  imaginary  conspiracy.  The  person  thus  distin- 
guished was  seated  in  advance  of  the  rest,  and  in  this  manner, 
on  different  occasions,  Brissot,  Hebert,  as  well  as  others  bore 
a  marked  preeminence  among  the  doomed.  The  Court  com- 
municated with  the  dungeons  of  the  Conciergerie,  and  the 
accused  were  brought  to  this  prison  the  day  previously,  and 
then,  on  summons,  were  led  up  the  winding  stair-case  to 
receive  the  bitter  mockery  of  a  trial. 

As  has  been  stated,  there  was  at  first  an  attempted  show  of 
justice;  thus  there  was  a  resemblance  to  our  Grand  Jury  in 
the  "Jure  d^ Accusation.'"  The  prisoners  were  also  examined, 
and  notified  of  the  charges  held  against  them;  they  enjoyed, 
besides  this,  a  brief  interval  of  preparation  for  trial,  and 
the  privilege  of  counsel.  But  in  the  haste  and  confusion 
which  soon  prevailed,  and  which  were  inevitable  in  a  Court 
held  night  and  day,  and  crowded  with  work,  these  forms  were 
soon  neglected,  and  at  last  were  wholly  suppressed. 

The  Convention  had  decided  that  all  conspiracies  tending 
to  disturb  the  state,  or  lead  to  civil  war,  were  capital  offences, 
and  hence  it  was  soon  made  evident  that  the  Tribunal  sat  in 
judgment,  not  only  on  deeds,  but  motives.  No  greater  power 
could  have  been  conferred  upon  it,  for  the  term  "conspiracy" 
included  opinions  as  well  as  overt  acts,  and  unuttered  thoughts 


THE  DESPOTISM  EXERCISED.  233 

as  well  as  deeds.  The  course  pursued  was  to  submit  to  the 
jury  two  questions,  which  soon  became  of  stereotype  cha- 
racter. The  first  was  the  existence  of  a  counter-revolutionary 
conspiracy,  and  in  the  atmosphere  of  suspicion  which  over- 
hung Paris,  who  dared  deny  it?  The  supposed  aim  of  this 
imaginary  conspiracy  was  to  vilify  the  Convention,  or  to 
excite  civil  war,  or  to  reestablish  royalty,  and  to  this  ques- 
tion the  jury  had  but  one  reply  to  offer:  "//  est  constant'''' — 
(it  is  undeniable).  The  next  enquiry  was,  "Is  the  prisoner 
to  be  included  in  this  treasonable  number'?"  And  now, 
insulated  facts,  or  imaginary  charges,  were  raked  together, 
and  counter-revolutionary  expressions  were  repeated,  until 
fi'om  whispers  they  assumed  tone  and  force.  These,  indeed, 
were  sufficient,  before  such  a  court,  without  any  direct  proof 
of  one's  connection  with,  or  even  knowledge  of  the  supposed 
plot.  The  common  reply  to  this  question  was  given  by  the 
jury  in  the  stereotype  expression,  "i7  est  constant'''' — that  the 
prisoner  was  the  author  of,  or  accomplice  in,  the  said  con- 
spiracy, and  this  unchanging  verdict  sent  thousands  to  the 
scaffold. 

The  Tribunal  and  the  guillotine  became  thus  the  two  arms 
of  a  despotism  such  as  the  world  had  seldom  before  known. 
The  one  ceased  not  its  work  of  horror,  night  or  day;  but  the 
other,  compelled  to  inactivity  by  the  shadows  of  twilight, 
renewed  with  the  reappearing  day  the  work  of  death,  thus  to 
compensate  for  the  lost  hours  of  night.  And,  as  though  to 
exhibit  to  all  Paris  the  appalling  delirium  of  the  nation,  and 
the  bloody  mischief  of  unrestrained  madness,  the  guillotine 
was  shifted  from  one  part  of  the  city  to  another;  and,  fol- 
lowing it  to  each  station,  came  the  cart  with  its  pallid  crowd, 
and  with  it  the  mob,  eager  for  the  bloody  finale,  pressing  on  in 


23i  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

hot  pui'suit.  It  was  first  erected  in  the  Carrousel — thence  it 
was  removed  to  the  Place  de  Greve — and  thence,  after  blood 
had  there  been  sufficiently  shed,  it  was  borne  to  the  Place  de 
la  Revolution.  Among  the  early  victims  who  suffered  here 
was  seen  the  royal  form  of  Louis  Sixteenth,  expiating  by  his 
own  death,  and  in  his  own  capital,  the  tyranny  and  perfidy  of 
his  ancestors.  The  race  had  long  been  distinguished  for  its 
treachery  to  the  nation,  as  well  as  for  its  hatred  to  Protest- 
antism. It  had  for  centuries  sold  itself  to  the  service  of 
Rome;  it  had  poured  out  the  blood  of  martyred  thousands, 
until  not  only  the  gory  streets  of  Paris,  but  the  empurpled 
Seine  bore  witness  against  it  before  God,  and  now,  in  the 
person  of  the  unfortunate  Louis,  it  was  reaping  an  inevitable 
retribution.  As  he  stood  on  the  scafiold,  surrounded  by  a 
sea  of  malignant  countenances,  he  could  behold  the  pavilion 
of  his  once  sumptuous  palace,  while  nearer  by  his  eye  might 
have  for  a  moment  rested  on  the  ruins  of  his  grandfather's 
statue,  whose  stately  pedestal  had  escaped  the  power  of  the 
mob.  He  turned  to  address  the  multitude,  but  was  suddenly 
seized  and  bound,  and  in  a  few  moments  his  head  (still 
turned  toward  the  Tuileries,)  fell  into  the  basket.  Some 
individuals  steeped  their  handkerchiefs  in  his  blood.  The 
armed  volunteers  dipped  their  weapons  in  it.  The  officers  of 
the  Marseillaise  Battalion  bore  on  high  the  ruddy  stain,  and 
exclaimed,  as  they  waved  their  swords,  "This  is  the  blood  of 
a  tyrant!"  One  individual  mounted  the  scaftuld,  and  plung- 
ing his  arm  into  the  gore,  sprinkled  it  on  the  crowd,  each  of 
whom  seemed  anxious  to  receive  a  drop — "  Friends,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  we  were  threatened  that  the  blood  of  Louis  should 
be  on  our  heads — and  so  you  see  it  is !  " 

After  the  execution  of  the  King  there  was  a  pause  in  the 


CHARLOTTE  CORKAT  AND  THE  QUEEN.  235 

work  of  death.  But  little  is  to  be  recorded  concerning  the 
guillotine,  until  under  the  control  of  the  new  and  terrible 
Tribunal,  it  is  established  in  the  Place  de  Carrousel.  Some 
twelve  victims  suffered  there,  when,  in  consequence  of  the 
proximity  of  the  Hall  of  the  Convention  to  the  scene  of 
execution,  the  machine  was  removed  once  more  to  the  Place 
de  la  Bevolution,  and  erected  hard  by  the  spot  where  the 
Kino-  suffered.  Here  its  wanderings  terminated  for  a  season, 
and  here,  for  thirteen  months,  it  wrought  its  work  of  death, 
fulfilling  that  series  of  murders,  unsurpassed  in  the  annals  of 
mankind.  During  these  thirteen  months,  1235  victims 
passed  beneath  the  steel,  among  whom  were  the  Girondins. 
Numbered  with  these  Aifas  the  heroic  and  lovely  Charlotte 
Corday,  who,  fiiiling  to  escape  after  the  assassination  of  the 
monster  Marat,  suffered  the  penalty  of  heroism  on  the  17th 
July,  1793.  It  is  said  that  the  executioner  held  up  the  head 
by  the  hair,  to  the  view  of  the  mob,  and  then  rudely  slapped 
one  side  of  the  face — and  a  strange  and  baseless  tradition 
adds  that  the  pallid  countenance  blushed  with  indignation. 
Here,  too,  on  the  16th  of  October  following,  the  illustrious 
Queen  met  her  long-expected  fate — met  it  meekly,  yet  undis- 
mayed; thus  terminating  a  flood  of  earthly  sorrow,  such  as 
few  of  her  sex  have  known — tasting,  now,  the  last  dregs  in 
that  bitter  cup  she  was  to  drain.  Rudely  jolted  in  ar  com- 
mon cart  to  the  scaffold,  she  mounted  it  amid  fiendish 
execrations,  and  like  her  husband,  terminated  her  life  in  view 
of  the  scenes  of  former  happiness. 

Another  of  the  royal  family,  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  suf- 
fered on  the  10th  May,  1794.  Some  four-and-twenty  others 
perished  at  the  same  time,  under  charges  of  complicity  with 
her  in  conspiracy ;  but  it  is  not  psobable  that  she  had  ever 
before  met  them,  or  had  even  heard  their  names. 


236  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

Between  these  two  illustrious  victims  there  came  another, 
whose   name   and   character  possess  the  fascination  of  ro- 
mance.   As  JNIadame  Roland  approached  the  scaffold,  her  eye 
fell  on  the  ungainly  statue  of  Liberty,  which  had  recently 
been  placed  on  the  pedestal  of  the  overthrown  Louis  XV., 
and  apostrophizing  it,  she  uttered  that  memorable  exclama- 
tion, "  O,  Liberty ! — what  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name !" 
Soon  the  appetite  for  such  scenes  became  craving  and  in- 
satiable,  and   the   populace   found  an  excitement  equal  to 
that  which  once  filled  the  Coliseum.     Seats  were  arranged 
around  the  scaffold,  and  these  were  hired  by  women  of  no 
humble  position  in  life,  who  were  found  sitting  and  chatting 
at  their  work,  while  waiting  for  the    cortege  and    the  cart. 
Citizen   Chaumette,   Solicitor   of   the    Commune   of   Paris, 
complained  to  the  Procureur  that  after  an  execution  dogs 
came  to  lap  the  blood  of  the  victims,  and  that  crowds  of  men 
fed  their  eyes  upon  the  revolting  spectacle.     It  is  a  matter 
of  some  doubt  whether  Chaumette's  complaint  arose  from 
humanity  so  much  as  from  the  fact  that  beasts  of  draft  and 
burden  refused  to  approach  the  spot,  and  that  one  of  the  fan- 
tastic processions  of  the  Convention  was  thrown  into  confusion 
by  the  smell  of  that  blood  which  for  a  year  had  saturated  the 
ground.     Chaumette  is  remembered  as  one  of  the  most  san- 
guinary of  his  party — and  especially  as  the  one  who  presented 
a  prostitute  to  the  Convention  as  the  Goddess  of  Reason. 
lie  finished  his  career  on  the  scaffold,  under  the  orders  of 
Robespierre,  just  eleven  months  after  the  date  of  the  above- 
mentioned  complaint. 

Having  remained  thirteen  months  in  the  Place  de  la  Re- 
volution, the  shopkeepers  of  Rue  St.  Hoiioru  became  weary 
of  the  daily  line  of  tumbrels  which  frightened  away  trade, 
and  hence  the  guillotine  was  removed  to  the  Place  de  St. 


WANDERINGS  OF  THE  GUILLOTINE.  237 

Antoine,  in  front  of  the  ruins  of  the  Bastile.  To  save  time, 
this  removal  took  place  upon  the  Decadi.  In  five  days  it  had 
executed  ninety-six  victims,  when,  on  popular  complaint — 
for  the  putrefaction  of  blood  became  a  nuisance — its  location 
was  again  changed,  and  it  was  set  up  in  the  Barriere  du 
Trone,  where  it  stood  forty-nine  days.  Such  was  its  fell 
activity,  and  so  fully  did  it  accomplish  the  predictions  of 
Guillotin  to  the  Assembly,  that  during  these  forty-nine  days 
twelve  hundred  and  seventy  passed  beneath  the  axe.  The 
sufferers  included  all  ages  and  ranks,  and  so  great  was  the 
stream  of  blood,  that  a  conduit  was  found  necessary  for  its 
discharge  from  the  scaffold. 

From  the  Barriere  du  Trone  it  was  borne  once  more  to  the 
Place  de  la  Revolution,  and  having  thus  almost  made  the  tour 
of  Paris,  it  reappeared  in  the  square  where  it  had  received  its 
most  illustrious  victims.  The  last  day  of  its  abode  at  the 
Barriere  du  Trone  was  the  famed  9th  Thermidor — the  day  of 
Robespierre's  fall. 

Hardly  had  the  guillotine  been  reerected  in  the  Place  de 
la  Revolution,  when  he,  the  prostrate  miscreant,  pallid  with 
loss  of  blood  from  attempted  suicide,  appears  upon  the 
scaffold  with  twenty-one  of  his  adherents.  The  tyrant  lies, 
helpless  in  the  presence  of  the  instrument  of  his  vengeance. 
How  many  hundreds  has  he  sent  to  look  it  in  the  face?  How 
many  hundreds  have  at  his  word  been  bound  to  the  bascule, 
and  trundled  beneath  the  fatal  axe?  Upon  this  very  spot, 
too — for  here  the  blood  of '  Bourbon  and  Girondin  flowed 
together,  in  view  of  the  Tuileries,  and  under  the  shadow  of 
that  same  statue,  apostrophized  by  the  unfortunate  Roland. 

The  savage  officials  gloat  over  their  victim — they  have  him 
at  last — the  Grand  Master  of  these  bloody  scenes,  as  helpless 


238  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

in  their  grasp  as  one  of  liis  own  victims!  They  wrench  the 
bandage  from  his  shattered  jaw;  they  bind  him  to  the  bascule, 
and  trundle  him  forward,  as  at  his  beck  they  have  done  with 
thousands — and  the  descending  axe  avenges  Paris  and  man- 
kind. * 

We  have  thus  far  narrated  the  movements  of  the  guillotine 
because  it  seems  to  have  afforded  an  abandoned, nation  the 
instrument  best  adapted  to  its  own  destruction.  We  now 
return  to  the  Tribunal.  Its  history  leads  us  to  reaffirm  our 
position  with  increased  earnestness.  The  equitable  execution 
of  laws,  and  the  impartial  administration  of  justice,  are  only 
found  under  the  benign  influence  of  Christianity.  It  is  said 
that  Franklin  once  exclaimed  to  Paine,  "If  the  world  be  so  bad 
with  religion,  what  would  it  be  without  it  ? "  The  question  was 
one  of  moment,  and  we  believe  the  present  sketch  will  aid  in 
affording  a  suitable  reply;  for  if  we  find  that  mankind,  after 
.  having  cast  off  God  and  his  word,  and  abrogated  the  Sabbath, 
becomes  cruel,  implacable,  and  unjust  to  a  remarable  de- 
gree— and  if,  as  a  consequence,  society  be  broken  and  the 

*  The  circumstances  attending  the  arrest  of  Robespierre  are  much  in 
dispute,  and  the  question  whether  the  pistol  whose  bullet  shattered 
his  fuce  was  lired  by  himself  or  by  another,  has  never  been  settled. 
Leonard  Bourdon  presented  to  the  Convention  tho  gen  d'arme  Moda 
(afterward  Baron  Meda),  as  the  individual  who  shot  the  great  outlaw. 
To  this  Lamartine  adds,  as  a  coincident  fact,  that  Robespierre's  pistols 
were  found  still  loaded  after  his  death.  This,  if  true,  removes  the  charge 
of  suicide. 

Carlyle,  however,  asserts  that  he  shot  himself,  while  Coleridge  iu  his 
drama  of  the  fall  of  Robespierre  is  wild  enough  to  make  the  wound  that 
of  a  knife.  If  the  deed  were  not  suicidal  it  was  not  for  want  of  example 
in  his  own  associates.  Valaze  stabbed  himself  in  the  thronged  Tribunal 
when  sentence  was  pronounced  against  the  Girondms.  Condorcet  took 
poison  in  prison,  and  Paris,  who  slew  Le  Pelletier  San  Fargcau,  escaped 
the  guillotine  by  a  similar  deed.     Other  instances  could  be  cited. 


INFIDELITY  AND  BLOODSHED.  239 

race  be  found  relapsing  into  barbarism,  then  we  may  honestly 
charge  these  results  to  Infidelity.  It  has  been  urged,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  excesses  of  which  we  speak  arose  from 
pojDular  reaction — that  they  were  the  result  of  ancient  abuses — 
of  ages  of  oppression,  which  had  unfitted  the  masses  for  self 
government,  and  held  it  in  ignorance  of  liberty,  until  at  last 
it  burst  into  license.  This  statement  is  highly  plausible.  Yet 
even  were  it  true,  could  it  account  for  the  prolonged  blood- 
shed, and  the  horrors  which  for  so  long  a  time  made  Paris  a 
vast  charnel  house?  That  there  was  a  popular  reaction,  is 
very  evident;  but  like  all  reactions,  it  was  sudden,  impe- 
tuous, and  equally  brief.  It  had  abated  even  before  the 
Reign  of  Terror  commenced. 

The  pages  of  history  are  not  stained  by  the  outbursts  of  an 
indignant  populace,  but  by  the  insane  violence  of  a  nation  of 
Atheists,  which  having  renounced  its  Creator,  and  reviled  his 
mercy,  had  been  abandoned  by  Him  to  the  full  current  of  its 
own  hideous  depravity.  Whatever  may  be  the  benefits 
which  grew  out  of  the  Revolution  as  respects  political 
reform — ^we  contemplate  as  far  more  important  the  lesson  it 
has  taught  us  as  to  the  danger  of  National  Atheism. 

The  chronological  order  of  the  List  of  Condamnds,  and 
other  authorities,  which  we  are  now  quoting,  give  among  the 
first  the  case  of  a  servant  woman,  nearly  sixty,  charged  with 
shouting  in  the  streets,  "  Vive  le  HoiP^  and  talking  of  her  two 
sons  in  the  royalist  army.  She  denied  remembering  the 
shouting  in  the  street — and  as  to  speaking  of  her  sons  in  the 
army,  it  was  quite  impossible,  as  she  had  never  been  a 
mother.  Other  evidence  from  her  master  and  acquaintance 
went  to  show  that  she  had  never  been  even  suspected  of 
counter-revolutionary  views.     Nevertheless,  this  model  jury 


240  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

brought  in  as  their  verdict,  "77  est  constant — that  language 
tending  to  provoke  the  massacre  of  the  National  Convention, 
the  dissolution  of  the  Republic,  and  the  reestablishment  of 
royalty  in  France,  has  been  held  at  different  times  in  certain 
coffee-houses,  and  particularly  on  the  7th  March,  in  the  guard- 
house of  St.  Firmin.  2dly,  That  the  pi'isoner  is  convicted  of 
having  used  this  language."  Here  the  reader  will  note  that 
an  obscure  domestic  is  made  responsible  for  language  said 
to  have  been  used  in  "certain  coffee-houses^^  where  it  is 
not  proven  that  she  had  ever  been,  simply  because,  when  in 
a  state  of  intoxication,  she  had  been  locked  up  for  a  night  in 
a  guard-house,  and  there  vittered  the  ordinary  drivelling  of 
drunkenness — yet  for  this  offence  she  was  the  next  morning 
guillotined,  and  her  scanty  effects  confiscated. 

Shortly  after,  we  have  the  case  of  a  hackney  coachman, 
charged  with  resistance  to  the  city  watch,  and  fur  using,  when 
under  his  arrest,  indecent  and  seditious  laniiua<re.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  grossly  intoxicated,  and  raving  with 
abuse,  yet  for  this  he  was  condemned  and  executed  the  same 
evening. 

But  cooks  and  hackney  coachmen  were  soon  to  give  place 
to  victims  of  a  nobler  sort.  The  conflict  between  the  Jaco- 
bins and  Girondins  was  increasing  in  intensity.  Every  hour 
beheld  increased  and  incredible  violence.  The  latter  impro- 
ving their  majority,  had  succeeded  in  sending  the  terrible 
Marat  to  trial,  little  dreaming  that  instead  of  condemnation 
he  would  receive  a  triumphant  acquittal,  and  be  returned  to 
the  Convention  crowned  with  garlands,  to  renew  relentless 
warfare  on  his  foiled  and  dispirited  enemies.  The  Mountain 
and  the  Tribunal,  indeed,  were  too  strongly  allied  to  permit 
the  death  of  one  of  the  former;  this  alliance  now  became 


AN  UNFORTUNATE  GOLD  BUYER.  241 

even  closer,  and  the  Tribunal  thenceforth  exhibited  a  vastly- 
increased  boldness. 

An  individual  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  buying  gold 
coin,  with  the  alleged  view  of  sending  it  to  some  friends  who 
had  fled  the  country.     Conscious  of  their  power,  the  jury- 
delivered  speeches  as  well  as  verdicts.     One  exclaims  that 
"any-  man  who,  in  time  of  revolution,  prefers  his  own  interests 
to  the  public  advantage,  and  who  speculates  in  the  public 
funds  to  his  own  advantage,  must  be  considered  a  bad  citizen, 
and   treated  as  a  counter-revolutionist."      Another,   before 
delivering     his    verdict,    utters     the     following     harangue : 
"Citizens — of  twenty-four  jurors  named  to  form  the  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal,  eleven  only  have  had  the  courage  to  save 
their  country,  and  to  expose  themselves  to  the  clamor  of 
calumny,  and  even  to  poison,  and  to  the  knife  of  the  assassin. 
I  am  come  here  with  a  heart  pure  and  burning  with  the  holy 
love  of  liberty,  and  whatever  be  the  lot  that  the  foes  of  the 
Revolution  may  prepare  for  me,  I  shall  never  deceive  the 
national   confidence."      The   unfortunate  gold-buyer,  conse- 
quently, received  the  treatment  due  to  a  counter-revolutionist, 
notwithstanding  a  bribe  of  80,000  francs,  which  the  public 
accuser  received,  to  ensure  his  escape.     Nor  did  the  broker, 
through   whom   his    purchase   was   made,   find    any   better 
justice — both  passed  under  the  same  axe,  and  upon  the  same 
day. 

Of  the  character  of  the  jury  we  have  previously  spoken; 
but  we  may  add  a  brief  description  of  the  author  of  the  above 
■  quoted  address.  He  was  about  fifty  years  of  age — very  dirty, 
and  very  deaf — clothed  in  cast-oiF  apparel,  and  wearing  a 
greasy  red  cap;  and  so  completely  exceeding  in  degradation 
the  lowest  of  the  Sans-culloites,  both  in  dress  and  language,  that 

11 


242  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

his  portrait  has  been  preserved  as  the  best  illustration  of  a  revo- 
lutionary juror.*  Yet  for  fifteen  months,  under  the  assumed 
nick-name  of  "Dix  AoUt'''' \  he  sat  in  judgment  on  thousands; 
beside  this,  we  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  procured  the 
execution  of  a  large  number  of  the  citizens  of  an  adjacent 
village,  on  counter-revolutionary  charges,  when  in  fact  they 
were  victims  to  a  personal  grudge. 

The  inquisition  of  the  rural  districts  was  so  thoroughly 
established,  that,  to  say  nothing  of  the  independent  tribunals 
of  Lyons,  and  other  places,  squads  of  country  criminals 
were  forwarded  to  Paris;  and  a  single  family  from  Pomeuse 
is  said  to  have  been  condemned  for  "having  entertained 
correspondence  and  intelligence  with  the  enemy,  and  for 
having,  in  the  impossibility  of  sending  them  money,  buried 
or  hidden  it,  together  with  assignats  and  jewels.  The  victims 
from  Pomeuse  included  an  old  man,  a  woman,  a  visitor,  and 
a  chaplain,  and  several  servants — all  beheaded  on  a  charge 
which  reasonable  men  would  pronounce  absurd;  while  a 
group  from  Eouen,  consisting  of  a  merchant,  a  bookseller,  a 
miller,  two  tailors,  and  two  domestics,  suffered  at  Paris  on 
the  charge  of  a  riot,  nine  months  after  the  date  of  the 
supposed  offence. 

We  have  mentioned  the  death  of  Madame  Roland,  and  the 
Bulletin  affords  us  the  charges  on  which  she  was  convicted. 
She  had  been  thrown  into  prison  at  an  early  day,  while  her 
husband,  with  others,  escaped  by  flight.  One  of  these 
refugees,  writing  to  a  friend  in  Paris,  says,  "Do  not  forget 
our  estimable  friend  the  citoyenne  Roland,  and  try  to  gi\ 


c 


*  Portraits   des  Personages   Celebris  de  la  Revolution  Frangais. — 
Paris,  1796. 

f  Dix  Aout — tenth  of  August.     The  day  on  which  the  King  fell. 


LETTERS  OF  MADAME  ROLAND.  243 

her  some  comfort  in  her  prison,  by  sending  her  any  good 
news  you  can."  Again — "You  will,  I  hope,  have  executed 
my  commission  to  convey  some  consolation  to  Madame 
Roland.  Pray  endeavor  to  see  her — tell  her  that  not  only 
her  twenty-two  proscribed  friends,  but  every  honest  man 
feels  for  her  misfortunes.  I  enclose  a  letter  for  that  amiable, 
woman.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  you  only  can  execute  this 
important  commission,  and  you  must  endeavor,  by  all  means, 
to  get  her  out  of  prison,  and  into  some  place  of  safety." 
These,  with  others  of  similar  character,  including  several 
from  herself,  were  the  documentary  evidence.  In  one  of 
them  she  utters  the  following  seditious  language:  "News  of 
my  friends  is  the  only  happiness  I  can  now  enjoy;  I  am 
indebted  to  you  for  it.  Tell  them-  that  my  knowledge  of 
their  courage,  and  of  what  they  are  capable  of  doing  in  the 
cause  of  liberty,  satisfies  and  consoles  me  for  everything. 
Tell  them  that  my  esteem,  my  attachment,  and  my  best 
wishes  follow  them." 

In  addition  to  the  above,  "several  witnesses  deposed  to 
have  seen  at  the  table  of  the  accused,  Brissot  and  his  accom- 
plices, ridiculing  the  opinions  of  the  most  enlightened  mem- 
bers of  the  Mountain ;  that  she  had  about  Paris  confidential 
agents,  who  reported  to  Roland  what  passed  in  public  places, 
and  that  she  kept  up  a  correspondence  and  understanding 
with  the  principal  conspirators,  of  whom  she  was  the  life  and 
soul."  Such  were  the  crimes  for  which  this  hioh-minded 
woman  suffered.  We  pity  her  delusions,  but  pity  turns  to 
admiration.  How  her  breast  must  have  heaved  with  intligiia- 
tion,  as  she  boldly  confronts  Fouquier  and  his  atrocious  asso- 
ciates. The  noble  woman  spurns  them  Avith  contempt — and 
from  this  mockery  of  justice  passes  serenely  to  the  scaffold. 


244  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

Ah,  citoyenne  Roland!  Thy  steps  but  lead  the  way  which 
they  shall  soon  tread — and  the  curses  now  heaped  upon  thee 
shall  be  changed  for  that  sympathy  with  which  posterity 
shall  conserve  thy  memory. 

Under  such  organized  injustice,  innocence  coidd  not  hope* 
for  escape;  indeed,  one  of  the  clerks  of  the  Court  {^Diicret,) 
states  that  there  were  four  classes,  whose  condemnation  was 
inevitable — the  priesthood,  which  must  suffer  for  its  super- 
stition— the  opulent  citrzen,  who  must  die  because  of  his 
wealth — the  nobility,  whose  existence  was  incompatible  with 
the  new  regime — and  the  members  of  the  Constituent  Assem- 
bly, whose  political  offences  were  unpardonable.  Under  these 
rules  we  do  not  wonder  to  find  the  records  of  such  executions 
as  Madame  JVonac,  "fbr  being  author  or  accomplice  in 
a  conspiracy  against  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  by 
employing  manoeuvres  to  create  a  famine,  and  alai'm  the 
public  on  the  want  of  food."  The  proof  against  the  prisoner 
was  the  throwing  away  of  eggs  and  vegetables  spoiled  and 
unfit  for  use.  Another,  a  woman  of  large  property,  which 
was  needed  for  confiscation,  suflered  on  the  charge  of  being 
"author  or  accomplice  (the  stereotyped  phrase,)  of  a  con- 
spiracy against  the  safety  of  the  French  people,  in  denatura- 
lizing the  product  of  many  acres  of  land  in  the  district  of 
Champ,  by  causing  it  to  be  sown  with  lucerne  instead  of 
corn — in  making  troubles  in  the  district,  and  desiring  the 
arrival  of  the  Prussians  and  Austrians,  for  whom  she  kept 
provisions  in  her  house."  As  a  matter  of  course,  both  the 
womjln  and  her  farmer  (likewise  an  accomplice,)  went  to  the 
guillotine,  and  the  enormous  estate  which  had  prompted  these 
murders  went  as  quickly  to  the  public  purse.  The  Bulletin, 
among  many  others,  exhibits  the  following  incident,  which  is 


FALSE  CHARGES  MANUFACTURED. 


245 


a  fitting  companion  for  the  above,  and  we  quote  from  the 
indictment:  "The  municipal  officers  ascertained  in  the  most 
authentic  manner  that  in  a  basin,  situated  over  a  parterre  of 
the  said  house,  they  found  a  quantity  of  mud,  caused  by 
rotted  wheat,  in  which  there  were  several  grains  sound  and 
whole.  That  the  said  municipal  officers,  anxious  to  give  to 
this  statement  an  undeniable  character,  caused  some  of  the 
wheat  gathered  out  of  the  said  basin  to  be  baked,  and  that  it 
produced  a  species  of  bread  unfit  to  be  eaten."  This  strange 
indictment  was  found  against  an  aged  and  affluent  citizen, 
whose  country  seat  was  ornamented  with  the  small  foun- 
tain, or  basin,  mentioned  above.  The  prisoner  proved,  by  a 
numerous  array  of  witnesses,  that  he  had  not  occupied  the 
house  for  several  years— that  the  premises  were  empty  and 
neglected— that  if  any  wheat  had  been  found  in  the  basin,  it 
must  have  blown  there ;  and  finally,  that  that  year  he  had  no 
wheat,  as  his  ground  was  sown  with  oats.  In  answer  to  this 
defence,  the  Tribunal,  as  usual,  found  guilty— or,  to  quote  the 
incredible  verdict,  "1.  II  est  constant  that  a  plot  existed, 
tending  to  deliver  over  the  Republic  to  the  horrors  of  fiimine, 
in  throwing  into  ponds,  or  pieces  of  water,  and  causing  there 
to  rot,  grain  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the  people,  and  by 
this  means  to  operate  a  counter-revolution  and  civil  war,  by 
arming  the  citizens  against  each  other,  and  against  all  the 
leaitimate  authorities.  2.  That  the  prisoner,  Clement  Charles 
Laverdy,  is  the  author  or  accomplice  of  said  facts,"  By  the 
death  of  this  unfortunate  man  an  estate  of  some  250,000 
francs  per  anuum  fell  into  the  hands  oi  government;  indeed, 
how  could  one  guilty  of  such  wealth  hope  for  acquittal? 
For  several  months  the  Tribunal  was  thus  employed,  but 


246  THE  TRIBUXAL. 

in  that  time  its  axe  had  tasted  little  of  the  hot  blood  of  the 
Convention. 

Now  the  hour  came  for  the  sacrifice  of  the  Girondms. 
They  had  contended  resolutely  to  the  last,  but  the  great 
struggle  of  June  decided  their  question  of  relative  strength 
in  favor  of  the  Jacobins;  and  in  October  the  arrest  of  such 
as  remained  was  effected.  All  who  fled  were  outlawed,  and 
many  of  them  perished  miserably  in  the  provinces  by  their 
own  hand,  or  by  misfortune.  Twenty-one  Avere  arrayed 
for  judgment — Twenty-one — the  miserable  remnant  of  tliat 
powerful  party,  which  once  controlled  the  Convention,  now 
sat  in  those  seats,  to  which  their  voices  had  sent  many  a 
victim — now  faced  that  foul  array  of  jurors,  by  whom  their 
case  was  already  prejudged — now  met  the  stern,  malignant 
scowl  of  Fouquier,  the  impatient  accuser  ! 

The  trial  of  the  Girondins  was  the  most  important  in  the 
history  of  the  Tribunal.  Among  the  twenty-one  were  Beau- 
vais,  Gensonne,  -and  Vergniaud,  and  above  all,  Brissot,  one 
of  their  acknowledged  leaders.  But  important  as  this  trial 
may  be,  we  can  do  but  little  more  than  glance  at  it.  As  an 
illustration  of  gross  injustice,  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  details 
already  cited.  Guilty  as  that  party  may  have  been  of  political 
crimes,  not  one  was  urged  against  the  prisoners.  Their  deeds, 
however,  were  reviewed,  and  their  motives  impugned,  so  that 
in  whatever  way  they  had  acted  or  voted,  some  evil  design 
could  account  for  it — for  the  argument  held  forth  in  the  fable 
of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb  was  by  no  means  worn  out  by  the 
monstrous  court  which  had  plied  it  daily  so  long.  The  wit- 
nesses were  generally  confessed  enemies,  either  hostile  mem- 
bers of  the  Convention,  or  of  the  Commune  of  Paris,  among 


IMPATIENCE  OP  THE  JACOBIN  CLUB.  247 

whose  names  we  recognize  that  of  the  previously-mentioned 
Chaumette.  Their  evidence  consisted  of  long  and  wearisome 
harangues,  and  the  trial  bore  the  aspect  of  an  inflammatory 
debate.  Five  days  dragged  heavily  along.  The  jury  had 
from  the  besfinnini;  been  convinced,  but  the  doomed  band 
prolonged  their  defence  with  the  energy  of  despair.  They 
would  at  an  earlier  hour  have  been  silenced  in  condemnation, 
but  Paris  is  listening  to  the  matter,  and  it  will  not  do  to 
wawon  them  to  the  block  as  mio;ht  be  done  with  the  common 
herd.  Meanwhile  the  Jacobin  Club  became  impatient,  and 
sent  a  deputation  to  complain  to  the  Convention  of  this  delay, 
and  to  demand  a  law  to  "  free  the  Tribunal  from  those  forms 
which  stifle  the  conscience  of  the  jurors — and  also  to  permit 
them  to  declare  vs^hen  they  are  satisfied."*  Then  only  (the 
paper  adds),  "will  traitors  be  baffled,  and  Terror  be  the  order 
of  the  day."  It  was  thereupon  decided  by  the  Convention 
that  "when  any  trial  had  lasted  three  days,  the  judge  should 
ask  the  jury  whether  their  consciences  were  satisfied,  and  if 
answered  in  the  negative,  the  trial  was  to  proceed  until  they 
so  declared  themselves." 

During  these  strange  proceedings,  a  still  more  startling 
circumstance  occurred.  The  Tribunal,  following  the  example 
of  the  Club,  sent  a  letter  to  the  Convention.  In  this  unpre- 
cedented missive  the  following  language  is  used:  "The 
slowness  of  the  proceedings  of  our  Tribunal   obliges  us  to 

*  This  was  not  the  first  time  the  Convention  had  been  under  the  dic- 
tation of  the  Club.  The  Moniteur  of  the  24th  August  previous  gives  a 
vivid  scene,  in  which  the  Jacobins  not  only  sent  a  message  but  demanded 
to  appear  on  the  floor — where  their  orator  denounced  the  municipality  of 
Nancy,  and  the  cowering  Convention  referred  the  subject  to  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety. 


248  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

submit  to  you  some  observations.  Five  days  have  already 
been  consumed,  and  nine  witnesses  only  have  been  examined. 
Each,  in  making  his  deposition,  thinks  it  necessary  to  give  a 
history  of  the  Revolution.  Then  the  accused  answer  the 
witness,  and  the  witnesses  reply  in  their  turn,  and  so  they 
get  up  discussions  which  the  loquacity  of  the  accused  render 
very  long;  and  then  in  addition  to  these  individual  debates, 
shall  we  not  have  each  of  these  prisoners  insisting  on  making 
a  general  defence?  The  trial,  therefore,  will  never  be  finished. 
But  moreover,  we  ask  why  any  witnesses  at  alt?  The  Conven- 
tion— the  whole  Republic — are  the  accusers  in  this  case.  The 
proofs  of  the  crimes  of  the  accused  are  evident.  Every  one 
has  already  in  his  conscience  a  conviction  of  their  guilt.  But 
the  Tribunal  can  do  nothing  of  itself;  it  is  obliged  to  follow 
the  law.  It  is  for  the  Convention  itself  to  sweep  away  all  the 
formalities  which  trammel  our  proceedings."  * 

The  law  thus  demanded  was  immediately  passed,  for 
impossibilities  as  regards  injustice  had  ceased  to  exist.  Yet 
when  its  enactment  was  aimounced,  and  the  jury  was  interro- 
gated as  to  its  satisfaction  of  guilt,  it  returned  a  negative 
reply,  and  proceeded  with  the  trial  for  several  hours 
longer,  f 

*  Monitmr,  30th  October,  1793. 

f  The  facility  with  which  public  enemies  were  disposed  of,  and  the 
detail  with  which  all  the  incidents  of  personal  history  were  registered, 
may  be  illustrated  by  the  following  extract  from  the  "  Liste  du  Condam- 
nds,"  which  closes  a  most  curious  career:  "No.  513.  J.  B.  Clootz  dit 
Anacharsis,  age  de  38  ans,  nd  a  Cleves  dans  la  Belgique,  baron,  portant 
le  meme  nom,  deraeurant — en  France  depuis  onze  ans,  ayant  voyagd  dans 
I'etranger  plusieurs  fois,  domicilii  a  Paris  Rue  deMiJnars,  No.  153  section 
Lepelletier,  avant  la  Revolution  homme  de  lettre,  et  depuis  Membre  de  la 
Convention,  a  ii6  coudamne'  a  mort  et  execute  le  m^me  jour." 


A  HYPOCRITICAL  JURY.  249 

This  sickly  and  affected  humanity  must  have  been  patent  to 
all  as  the  veriest  hypocrisy.  That  jury  which  now  utters  its 
considerate  negative  had  been  satisfied,  five  days  previously, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  trial — it  was  weary  with  holding 
in.  It  had  petitioned  for  relief,  yet  when  that  relief  jirrives 
it  is  patiently  declmed.  However,  at  the  evening  session  at 
five  o'clock,  the  jury  was  found  to  be  satisfied,  and  rendered 
*he  inevitable  verdict.  The  road  to  the  scaffold  was  marked 
by  no  such  delay — it  stood  in  the  Place  de  la  Revolution, 
where  but  two  weeks  previously  it  had  received  the  majestic 
form  of  the  Queen.  The  dead  body  of  Valaze,  who  had 
stabbed  himself  on  the  rendition  of  the  verdict,  was  ordered 
to  accompany  the  wretched  Girondins,  in  order  that  from  the 
condemned  vans  they  might  behold  with  envy  the  better  fate 
of  their  comrade.  This  order,  however,  was  rescinded,  no 
doubt  on  grounds  of  expediency. 

The  trial  of  the  Girondins  fills  thirty  columns  of  the 
Moniteur;  Chabot,  a  witness,  filling  one-third  of  that,  space 
in  a  speech.  We  quote  from  the  closing  scene,  in  order  to 
furnish  the  reader  with  a  specimen  of  the  reports  of  the  day. 

"It  is  two  o'clock.  The  President  adjourns  court  until  five. 
The  judge  and  jury  being  convened  at  six,  Antonelle,  the 
foreman,  exclaims,  'I  declare  that  the  consciences  of  the  jury 
are  not  clear.'  The  President:  'I  invite  you,  citizen  jurors, 
in  the  name  of  the  law,  to  retire  to  the  consultation-room, 
in  or#er  to  deliberate.'  The  jury  leave  the  chamber;  it  is 
now  seven  o'clock ;  the  President  commands  the  gensd'armes 
to  remove  the  accused ;  they  do  so.  After  three  hour's  delibera- 
tion the  jury  reenter  the  chamber;  the  greatest  silence  reigns. 
The  President  interrogates  the  jury  on  the  following  ques- 


250  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

tions:  'Is  it  certain  that  there  exists  a  conspiracy  against  the 
unity  and  indivisibility  of  the  Republic,  and  against  the 
liberty  and  security  of  the  French  people?  Jean  Pierre 
Brissot,  etc.,  are  they  guilty  of  being  the  authors  of  this 
conspiracy?'  The  unanimous  answer  of  the  jury  is  affirma- 
tive. In  consequence,  the  Tribunal  condemns  to  the  punishment 
of  death  Jean  Pierre  Brissot,  and  the  others  individually 
named  in  the  indictment.  The  accused  are  brought  to  the 
chamber;  the  President  causes  the  verdict  of  the  jury  and 
the  sentence  of  the  Tribunal  to  be  read.  A  great  sen^tion 
appears  among  the  condemned;  the  citizens  in  the  chamber 
preserve  a  majestic  calm.  Gensonne  demands  to  speak  on  a 
point  of  law;  the  disturbance  among  the  condemned  re- 
doubles. Some  shout  'vive  la  RepubUque ! ''  others  denounce 
their  judges.  The  President  commands  the ^reres  (f  arwies  to 
depart  and  remove  the  condemned.  They  depart,  throwing 
assignats  among  the  people,  and  exclaiming,  'friends,  help 
us.'  A  miiversal  indignation  pervades  the  chamber;  the 
people  trample  the  assignats  under  their  feet;  they  tear  them 
in  pieces,  amid  shouts  of'vive  la  Mepubliquef  and  prove  by 
this  admirable  conduct  that  they  are  above  corruption." 

The  slaughter  of  the  Girondins  gave  the  Tribunal  an  oppor- 
tunity of  prosecuting  less  important  cases,  more  than  four 
hundred  of  which  were  disposed  of  during  the  remainder  of 
the  fall  and  the  ensuing  winter,  when  once  more  the  bloclc 
drinks  the  blood  of  the  Convention.  And  prominent  in  the 
pale  group  which  now  stands  on  the  scaffold,  is  the  form  of  the 
ferocious  Hebert,  the  bitter  denunciator  of  the  Girondins — 
Hebert,  the  friend  of  Danton,  Avho,  cowering  before  Robes- 
pierre, abandons   his    associate  to    the  axe.      The  trial    of 


HEBERT  AND  CLOOTZ  FOLLOW.  251 

Hebert  differed  nothing  from  that  of  the  Girondins,  and  the 
Pz-esident  of  the  Tribunal,  as  the  Bulletin  states,  "with  a 
most  energetic  speech  against  conspirators  in  general,  and 
without  entering  into  the  merits  of  any  of  the  facts  connected 
with  the  present  case — put  an  end  to  the  discussion,  and 
referred  the  question  in  the  usual  form  to  the  jury."  He 
was  executed  on  the  24th  March,  1794. 

"  On  the  same  scaffold 
Where  the  last  Louis  poured  his  guilty  blood, 
Fell  Brissot's  head.         «         *         *         * . 
And  Orleans,  villain  kinsman  of  the  Capet, 
And  Hebert's  Atheist  crew,  whose  maddening  hand 
Hurled  down  the  altars  of  the  hviug  God."  * 

Among  those  who  perished  in  the  same  fournee  with  He- 
bert and  his  associates  was  the  notorious  Clootz,  to  whom 
reference  is  made  in  a  preceding  note.  He  was  a  Prussian 
baron,  whose  varied  travels  had  given  him  the  name  of 
"Anacharsis."  Having  renounced  the  accidental  position  of 
high  birth,  he  became  one  of  the  most  extravagant  of  the 
Convention,  and  amons  other  vasjaries,  had  married  Madame 
Mormoro,  the  "Goddess  of  Reason."  Clootz  had  been 
arrested  three  months  previously,  along  with  Thomas  Paine. 
How  remarkable  that  of  these  two  prisoners,  arrested  the 
same  day,  one  should  perish  on  the  scaffold,  while  the  other 
should  escape  a  fate  which  overhung  him  daily  for  more 
than  six  months.  Should  one  inquire  what  suspended  tliat 
fate,  the  answer  will  be  found  in  that  Providence  which 
watches  the  full  of  a  sparrow,  and  which  had  that  purpose 
for  his  life  to  which  we  haV§'*referred  in  a  previous  sketch. 

The    Hebertists    are    now   dead — the    Jacobins   are    pun- 

*  Coleridge. 


J^« 


252  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

fled — and  their  leaders,  Danton  and  Robespierre,  are  sealed 
in  close  union  by  their  blood!  Paris  rejoices  over  the 
event,  when  suddenly  the  joy  of  the  metropolis  is  changed 
to  consternation.  Two  weeks  only  have  passed  since  Hebert, 
the  ferocious,  received  his  doom,  when  Danton,  Camille  Dcs- 
moulins,  and  others — the  flower  of  the  Jacobin  party — are 
arrested  by  order  of  Robespierre,  and  sent  to  the  Tribunal. 
All  Paris  shivers  with  terror — all  classes  are  smitten  dumb — 
what  earthquake  shall  open  next? 

And  Danton  faces  that  Tribunal,  which  so  long  has  been 
his  tool — so  long  the  instrument  of  destruction  to  his  foes; 
but  now  so  easily  turned  against  himself.  Danton  faces  the 
Tribunal — "the  engineer  hoist  by  his  own  petard" — in  burn- 
ing contempt,  yet  in  unutterable  rage.  It  has  been  stated 
thafrin  the  trial  of  groups,  a  single  prisoner  was  seated  in 
advance,  as  the  leader  or  representative  man;  but  on  this 
occasion,  as  though  unable  to  bear  his  unterrified  niien,  a 
lesser  culprit — Fabre  D'Eglantine — enjoyed  this  dis- 
tinction, and  the  form  of  Danton  is  buried  among  the  crowded 
benches  of  the  ordinary  accused — dishonored  even  in  the  place 
of  shame. 

The  trial  of  Danton  proved  the  strength  of  the  Tribunal — 
the  giant  of  the  Convention  could  not  cope  with  it.  Yet  it 
trembled  as  it  sat  in  judgment  upon  him,  and  demanded  from 
the  Convention  a  special  decree  that  when  prisoners  should 
rebel  against  the  Tribunal,  as  these  had  done,  the  trial  miglit 
be  closed  at  once,  by  summary  condemnation.  This  decree 
was  granted,  and  the  verdict  and  sentence,  which  had  been 
printed  before  the  commencementlof  the  trial,  were  at  once 
pronounced.  Thus  perished  one  of  the  groat  agitators  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror — one  who  had  given  no  rest  to  the  radicalism 


HIS  LAST  WORDS.  253 

which  devoured  France,  until  it  swept  him  away.  His  hist 
recorded  words  were  these:  "Just  a  year  ago,  I  myself  created 
the  Eevolutionary  Tribunal,  for  which  I  now  beg  pardon  of 
God  and  man — but  I  did  it  to  prevent  a  repetition  of  the 
massacres  of  September." 

The  execution  of  Danton,  the  Hebertists,  and  of  every 
one  who  could  aspire  to  rivalry,  left  Robespierre  supreme. 
France  owned  no  other  master.  Being  delivered  from  his 
enemies,  he  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  to  relent 
from  his  bloody  career.  But  public  hope  was  disappointed — 
indeed,  so  far  from  abating  its  work,  the  Tribunal  wrought 
with  increased  despatch.  To  this  end  one  indictment  was  made 
to  include  persons  of  diverse  crimes.  In  the  first  instance  of  this 
comprehensive  mode,  sixteen  persons  of  various  ages,  sexes, 
and  misdemeanors,  were  condemned.  Against  one,  the  charge 
was  that  an  individual  recently  executed  had  spoken  of  him 
as  "a  good  citizen."  Two  others  were  widows  of  men  who 
had  been  deadly  enemies  (Hebert  and  Desmoulins),  and  who 
had  brought  each  other  to  the  block — the  crimes  of  the 
husbands  being  a  sufficient  reason  why  these  wretched  women 
should  share  their  punishment.  Single  cases  now  became 
rare,  and  these  "batches,"  to  use  the  slang  of  the  day 
{fournee),  were  the  established,  order  of  the  Tribunal.  In- 
stead of  becoming  weary,  it  seemed  to  gather  new  strength, 
and  though  Fouquier  confessed  that  his  stealthy  midnight 
walks  to  the  different  committee-rooms  were  haunted  by  the 
pale  ghosts  of  the  slain,  yet  once  at  his  post,  his  nerves 
were  unblenched. 

In  the  great  rapidity  and  numbers  of  this  grim  institution, 
it  could  not  be  expected  that  a  fair  record  could  be  kept.  In 
the  different  transcripts  there  appear  many  gross  discrepancies 


254  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

and  errors  of  name.  Mistakes  of  spelling  frequently  led  to 
the  substitution  of  one  victim  in  the  place  of  another,  and 
even  to  a  confusion  of  the  sexes.  Thus  at  one  time  the 
husband  dies  in  the  place  of  his  wife,  while  she,  by  an  equal 
mistake,  suffers  in  that  of  her  own  chambermaid.  The  father 
is  guillotined,  when  the  charge  lays  against  the  son,  and  the 
dauirhter  receives  the  same  fate  in  the  father's  stead.*  The 
generic  charge  against  these  "  batches,"  was  their  being  in  the 
service  of  the  British  government — "agents  of  Pitt" — and  on 
the  same  scaffold,  and  under  the  same  accusation,  appeared 
on  one  occasion  the  grandfather,  the  daughter,  and  the  grand- 
daughter and  her  husband — each  in  their  turn  to  pass  beneath 
the  axe.  Such  scenes  had  ceased  to  astonish  Paris,  and  the 
gaping  crowd  gaze  carelessly  on,  as  Malhcrbes,  gray  and 
venerable,  and  Madame  de  Rosambo,  parent  and  child,  step 
from  the  cart  to  the  platform — each  endeavoring  to  sustain 
the  other  in  the  awful  hour;  while  Chateaubriand  and  his  wife, 
linked  to  them  in  the  double  ties  mentioned  above,  stand  by 
their  side — equally  innocent,  and  equally  unfortunate. 

That  day,  if  ever,  the  block  drank  the  blood  of  the  truly 
noble,  for  in  the  same  sentence  were  included  Madame  de 
Grammont,  who  would  not  condescend  to  a  defence  before 
the  Tribunal,  though  she  could  plead  on  behalf  of  her  fellow 
victim,  the  tender  Madame  du  Chatelet — and  appealing  to 
her  life  of  innocence  and  retirement,  exclaimed,  "  I  am  aware 

*  A  young  woman  testified,  subsequently,  on  the  trial  of  Fouquicr,  that 
she,  aged  21 — her  husband,  aged  22 — her  brother,  a  mere  youth — her 
mother  and  hor  uncle,  as  well  as  her  grand  uncle  and  her  grandfather — 
were  all  brouglit  before  the  Trilnmal  on  a  charge,  at  whose  date  they 
were  in  anotlier  part  of  the  kingdom.  Such  was  the  iudiflorence  of  the 
Tribunal  to  their  defence,  and  even  to  their  appearance,  that  the  youth 
was  condemned  as  his  own  father,  and  as  the  husband  of  his  own  mother. 


A  GREAT  DAT  OF  HORRORS.  255 

that  it  is  useless  to  speak  about  myself,  but  what  has  this 
angel  done?"  To  these  we  add  the  Polish  Princess  Laborn- 
inska,  against  whom  no  charge  is  recorded,  and  who  perished 
at  the  age  of  twenty-three — and  while  for  the  first  time  about 
to  become  a  mother.  Let  the  reader .  listen  to  the  brief 
words  of  affection  spoken  hurriedly  by  the  victims:  "You 
had  the  happiness,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Eosambo,  to  a 
young  girl,  the  Mademoiselle  Sombreuil,  "of  saving  your 
fathei' — I  have  that  of  dying  with  mine  ! " 

Amid  a  series  of  massacres,  involving  the  fate  of  thousands 
of  a  lesser  name,  the  episode  of  the  Farmers'  General  com- 
mands a  fearful  distinction.  We  have  not  space  to  exhibit 
it  in  detail.  They  were  of  that  class  of  operators  who  farmed 
the  public  revenue,  and  their  wealth  had  rendered  them 
obnoxious.  On  the  5th  of  May,  1794,  the  Convention  listened 
to  a  long  report,  which  pretended  to  review  their  conduct 
for  a  number  of  years.  In  two  days  they  were  sent  to 
prison — on  the  third  they  were  arraigned,  and  the  same 
report  was  produced  in  evidence  against  them ;  while,  in  the 
pressure  of  haste,  the  formality  of  conviction  was  forgotten, 
as  had  been  that  of  the  trial,  and  they  were  sent  to  the  guil- 
lotine with  the  same  despatch.  Among  the  charges  on  which 
these  men  suffered  was  that  of  dampening  tobacco  to  increase 
its  weight — a  crime  which  had  been  committed,  if  at  all, 
nearly  twenty  years  previously. 

We  furnish  the  following  extracts  from  the  Moniteur,  as  a 
•enerfil  illustration  of  our  subject.  Here  the  reader  will 
find  chambermaids,  widows  and  octogenarians  huddled  in 
among  the  nobler  victims  of  an  imaginary  charge.  Ho-v 
tame  are  the  boldest  flights  of  the  trag-ic  muse  when  com- 
pared  with  the  facts  of  Parisian  life  during  nearly  two  years. 


256  THE  TliiiiUNAL. 

"Criminal  Revolutionart  Tribunal  of  the  1th  Thermidor — 
"  J.  L.  Momeau,  aged  37,  bom  at  Charleville — ex-vicar. 
"  J.  Jenthin,  aged  52,  born  at  Chalons — ex-priest. 

"  J.  Martin,  aged  26,  born  at  Villeneuve — ex-curd. 

"  B.  F.  Laboulaye,  aged  50,  born  at  Fessanvilliers — ex-noble. 

"  M.  A.  Leroy,  aged  21,  born  at  Paris — actress. 

"F.  Decaix,  aged  59,  born  at  Ainval — ex-curd. 

"  J.  Guillemotot,  aged  56,  born  at  Lignac — ex-vicar. 

"J.  Buguis,  aged  41,  born  at  Ville-Juif — ex-innkeeper. 

"  J.  B.  H.  Postet,  aged  45,  born  at  Orveau — Counsellor  of  the  late  Par- 
liament  of  Rouen. 

"  J.  F.  Laurent,  aged  39,  bom  at  Senlis — ex-grocer. 

"  J.  B.  Fournier,  aged  2*7,  born  at  Lonjumeau — ex-commissary. 

"  M.  G.  Ribreyreix,  aged  5*7,  born  at  Courzac — ex-noble. 

"  M.  C.  Lepelletier,  aged  54,  bom  at  Paris — ex-Princess. 

"  Clermont  Tonnerre,  aged  74,  born  at  Paris — ex-Lieutenant  General. 

"  M.  C.  Senectere,  aged  44,  bom  at  Paris — widow  of  the  ex-Marshal  of 
France. 

"  C.  L.  Amboise,  aged  67,  born  at  Aurillac — ex-Marquis — ex-Comman- 
dant of  Normandy — ex-Constituent. 

"  C.  P.  Vigny,  aged  26,  born  at  Paris — ex-noble. 

"  A.  M.  Nonant,  aged  30,  bom  at  Paris — ex-Coimtess  and  widow. 

"  C.  J.  Marmevillc,  aged  63,  born  at  Rouen — widow  of  ex-Marquis. 

"J.  Lanti,  aged  81,  bom  at  Paris — ex-noble  and  Senior  of  the  late 
Grand  Council. 

"  A.  M.  Bruny,  aged  61,  bom  at  Commune — ex  noble — ex-Major,  with 
the  grade  of  Colonel  in  the  Legion  of  the  Isle  of  France. 

"  L.  C.  Onevin,  aged  32,  born  at  Didicr — chambermaid. 

"  C.  Grammont,  aged  44,  bom  at  Paris — widow  of  Marshal  of  the  Camp 
— ex-Countess — lady  of  honor  of  the  ivoman  Capet  (Marie  Antoinette). 

"  C.  F.  Saint  Simon,  aged  70,  born  at  Paris — ex-Bishop  of  Agde. 

"F.  Lamprinc,  aged  58,  born  at  Paris — widow  of  a  Brigadier  General. 

"  H.  C.  Thiers,  aged  72,  bom  at  Paris — ex-Count — ex-Lieutenant  Gen- 
eral. 

"M.  F.  Bviplessis,  aged  71,  born  at  Paris — ex-Countcs. 


LIST  OF  A  SINGLE  FOURNEE.  257 

"  L  F.  Stahiville,  aged  26,  born  at  Paris — ex-Princess. 
"  A.  C.  Viotte,  aged  43,  born  at  BesanQon — attendant  of  the  above. 
"M.  Guichard,  aged  51,  born  at  Paris — widow  of  Master  of  Accounts. 
•  L.  M.  D'Usson,  aged  62,  born  at  Paris — ex-Marquis  and  ex-Marshal  of 

"  A.  Leboyray,  aged  29,  born  at  Leboyray — ex-noble, 

"S.   Loiserelles   {the  father),   aged  62,  born  at  Paris — ex-Lieutenant 
General. 

"  C.  L.  Trudaine,  aged  29,  born  at  Paris — ex-noble,  and  Counsellor  of 
the  late  parliament  of  Paris. 

"G.  M.  Trudaine,    aged  28,  born  at  Paris — same  quality  \no  doubt 
brother  of  the  above.'] 

"  P.  Rock,  aged  30,  born  at  Montpollier — military  employe'e, 

"  J.  Bearisset,  aged  43,  born  at  Pondicherry — ex-Captain  of  the  tyrants 
guard  [the  King]. 
'      "  N.  A.  Du  Coudray,  aged  54,  born  at  Paris— ex-Chevalier  of  the  tyrant. 

"  J.  V.  Nicant,  aged  3*7,  born  at  Paris— Counsellor  of  late  parliament. 

"  P.  De  Mahe,  aged  52,  born  at  Croissy — ex-noble. 

"  L.  Dervilly,  aged  43,  born  at  Paris — grocer. 

"  C.  F.  Dorival,  aged  33,  born  at  Rivemie — ex-hermit. 

"  C.  J.  Desoss^,  aged  5*7,  born  at  Paris — ex-constituent. 

"M.  Chefer,  aged  33,  born  at  Draguenin — wife  of  Desoss^. 

"E.  Riquet,  aged  56,  born  at  Toulouse— wife  of  ex-President  of  the 
Parliament  of  Toulouse. 

"  P.  Blanehard,  aged  50,  born  at  Meslc — ex-commissary. 

"R.  A.  Josteed,  aged  27,  born  at  Richemont  [probably  Richmond,  Va.] 
— wife  of  Butler,  the  American, 

"  M.  H.  Sabine,  aged  31,  born  at  Paris— wife  of  the  ex-Count  Pericord. 

# 
"  C.  A.  Broignard,  aged  44,  born  at  Mouchette — ex-cure. 

"  P.  Broguet,  aged  80,  born  at  Coutances— ex-pretre. 
"  C,  Auger,  aged  45,  born  at  Paris — ex-officer  of  the  peace. 
"M.  P.  Joseau,  aged  44,  born  at  Chartrcs — ex-Chief  of  the  Marine 
Bureau. 

"A.  J.  Boucher,  aged  36,  bom  at  Paris — ex-secretary. 

"  Convicted  of  being  the  declared  enemies  of  the  people,  of  taking  part 


258  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

in  the  conspiracies  and  plots  of  Capet  and  his  family,  of  assassinating  the 
people  to  defend  royalty,  of  holding  communication  with  the  enemies  of 
the  Republic,  of  furnishing  them  aid,  of  participating  in  the  crimes  of 
Lafayette  and  Petion,  of  trying  to  break  the  unity  and  indivisibihty  of  the 
Republic,  of  conspiring  in  the  house  of  arrest  in  order  to  escape,  and 
afterward  to  dissolve,  by  murder  and  assassination,  the  representatives  of 
the  people,  and  particularly  the  members  of  the  Committee  of  Public 
Safety,  and  to  restore  royalty — and  were  condemned  to  death." 

The  reader  will  note,  in  this  fournee  of  unfortunates — 
this  wholesale  murder  of  innocence  and  age,  which  was  but 
the  work  of  a  single  day,  the  name  of  Loiserelles,  the 
father.  We  have  italicized  this  term,  because  of  the  start- 
ling narrative  given  by  his  son.  "  On  the  7th  Thcrmidor," 
says  he,  "about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  heard  the 
name  of  Loiserelles  called  in  the  corridor.  I,  not  doubting 
that  this  call  of  death  was  meant  for  me,  ran  to  my  father's 
roora.to  take  my  last  leave  of  him;  but  what  did  I  sec? — 
a  turnkey  about  to  carry  off  my  flither!  I  hastened  to 
apprize  my  mother  that  my  father  was  about  to  be  taken 
from  us  for  ever.  She  instantly  came  and  embraced  him, 
with  a  cry  of  despair.  My  father  was  carried  ofi.  I  fol- 
lowed him  to  where  my  mother  could  not  see  our  last 
pangs  at  parting.  When  we  were  at  the  last  wicket,  he  said 
to  me,  'My  boy,  console  your  mother — live  for  her.  They 
may  murder,  but  they  cannot  degrade  me ! '  My  tears — my 
grief  prevented  any  answer,  but  I  was  about  to  embrace  him 
for  the  last  time,  when  Ihe  turnkey  brutally  thrust  me  back, 
and  shut  the  door  insolently  in  my  face,  with  these  cruel 
words:  'You  cry  like  a  child,  but  your  turn  will  come  tomor- 
row!' When  my  flither  readied  the  Conciergerie,  they 
furnished  him  with  a  copy  of  the  indictment;  but  Mhat  was 
his  surprise,  on  looking  at  it,  to  fmd  that  it  was  meant  fur 


LOISERELLES  AND  HIS  SON. 


259 


me,  and  not  for  him.  It  was  then  that  he  formed  the  gene- 
rous resolution  of  sacrificing  himself  for  me,  and  communi- 
cated his  design  to  Boucher,  a  friend  and  fellow-suflcrer. 
Boucher  admired  his  heroism,  but  dissuaded  him,  saying, 
'  You  will  destroy  yourself,  and  not  save  him.'  On  the  8th 
Thcrmidor  (2Gth  July)  my  father  and  thirty  fellow-sufferers 
appeared  before  the  court — the  indictment  is  read,  and 
Loiserelles  the  younger  is  arraigned;  but  instead  of  a  youth, 
it  is  a  venerable  old  man,  with  long  white  hairs,  that  answers 
the  call.  What  can  be  said  for  the  judge  or  jury  who  could 
thus  condemn  an  old  man  of  sixty-two  for  a  youth  of  twenty- 
two?  That  same  afternoon  my  father  died — died  for  his 
son — and  his  son  did  not  know  it  for  three  months.  My 
mother  and  I  were  still  detained.  At  last,  on  the  6th  Bru- 
maire  (26th  October),  we  were  restored  to  liberty — liberty, 
dearly  bought,  but  how  welcome,  had  my  fxther  l^ed  to 
share  it!  It  was  not  till  a  few  days  after  my  release  that 
Prauville,  a  fellow-prisoner  of  my  fother,  who  had  escaped 
by  the  Ml  of  Robespierre,  gave  me  this  information." 

The  bereaved  son  was  mistaken  on  one  point.  Although 
the  father  may  have  been  summoned  in  place  of  the  son,  yet 
it  is  evident  from  the  list  that  the  error  was  apparent  before 
the  father  w^as  sent  to  the  block. 

Clermont  Tonnerre  who  perished  in  thi^fournee  was  the 
first  noble  who  fraternized'  with  the  people  in  the  States 
General,  and  was  there  the  coadjutor  of  Robespierre,  who 
now-,  at  this  late  hour  m  the  night  of  terror,  sends  him  to 
the  axe. 

Three  fournees,  and  tbree  only  remain,  and  then  La  Ter- 
reur  shall  be  done.  The  first  shall  be  the  work  of  the  Tribu- 
nal, the  others  shall  be  sent  by  the  Convention,  and  shall  in- 


2G0  THE.  TRIBUNAL. 

elude  some  of  tlie  Tribunal  and  the  Commune.  The  guillo- 
tine stands  at  the  jBarri^re  du  Trdne,  and  receives  the  last 
array  of  victims  who  shall  j^erish  there.  From  this  distinc- 
tion as  closing  the  work  of  the  old  Tribunal,  we  place  their 
names  on  record : 

A.  J.  Brillon,  aged  20,  bom  at  Paris — ex-noble. 
J.  B.  Ferret,  aged  26,  born  at  Paris. 
L.  N.  Duval,  aged  28,  born  at  Senneville. 
T.  M.  Charpentier,  aged  30,  bom  at  Lafere. 

A.  Leguay,  aged  31,  born  at  Mount  Lucon — Captain  of  Chasseurs. 
F.  D.  de  Boulet,  aged  31,  born  at  Besancon. 

B.  C.  Bernard,  aged  33,  born  at  Lusignan — ex-priest. 
J.  GUlot,  aged  33,  born  at  Villeuve — merchant. 

F.  J.  Monchotte,  aged  34,  born  at  Paris. 

F.  G.  SalS,  aged  35,  bom  at  Moulins — ex-Mayor. 

F.  A.  Seguir,aged  35,  born  at  Chartres — chemist. 

G.  J^Lavorson,  aged  36,  born  at commissioner  of  estates. 

G.  J.  Arsoliere,  aged  37,  born  at  Paris. 

C.  P.  Cogneau,  aged  39,  born  at  Dijon — architect. 
L.  Merry,  aged  41,  born  at  Pontat. 

T.  0.  Clany,  aged  41,  born  at  Tarascon — ex-Administrator. 

L.  F.  Lejeune,  aged  41,  born  at  Helancour — officer  of  the  Peace. 

Billon  BufFe,  aged  44,  bom  at ex-Chevalier  of  Malta. 

P.  Marclie,  aged  45,  bom  at  Choiseul — ex-Committoe  Vigilance. 
J.  A.  Lhuillier,  aged  45,  born  at  Moulin — ex-Treasurer  of  Franco. 

N.  F.  Alberten,  aged  45,  bom  at . 

J.  M.  Aucnne,  aged  45,  bom  at  Martinique — cx-Captain. 

T.  C.  Gerard,  aged  46,  bom  at notary. 

G.  Loison,  aged  41,  born  at  Paris — Director  of  Theatre  Champ  ElysdSs. 

J.  P.  Bechon,  aged  47,  born  at  Paris — ex-Count. 

L.  0.  Demonerif,  aged  47,  born  at  Paris — ex-Counsellor. 

Alaroso  La  Bresne,  aged  48,  bom  at  Moulins — ex-Treasurer  of  France. 

A.  G.  Beauregard,  aged  49,  bom  at  Poitiers — ox-Grand  Vicar. 

J.  Do  Saint  Roman,  aged  50,  bom  at  Paris — ex-Counsellor 


VICTIMS  OF  THE  GUILLOTINE.  261 

G.  S.  Demouthes,  aged  50,  born  at  Belloc — ex-noble. 
Madame  Durant,  aged  50,  born  at  Paris — wife  of  Durant  [beloiv]. 
J.  G.  Vallot,  aged  51,  born  at  Fanners — Professor  of  Astronomy. 
F.  Sommesson,  aged  52,  born  at  Paris — Valet  de  Chambre. 
J.  Durefoux,  aged  57,  born  at  Noyerbois — ex-Canon. 
T.  N.  Guerin,  aged  58,  bom  at  Paris — Glass  maker. 
F.  N.  Barbeau,  aged  GO,  born  at  Lees — ex-Secretary  of  the  Tyrant. 
P.  Thurin,  aged  60,  born  at  Veze — widow  of  Captain  of  Cavalry. 
J.  Vatrin,  aged  65,  born  at  Saint  Pierre — ex-Justice  of  the  Peace. 
P.  Durant,  aged  69,  born  at  Paris — ex-Master  of  Accounts. 
R.  Vrigny,  aged  72,  born  at  Vrigny — ex-Marquis. 
A.  Maurice,  aged  73,  born  at  St.  Saturln — Wife  of  Loison. 
P.  L.  Demonerif,  aged  74,  born  at  Paris — ex-Counsellor  [father;  we  pre- 
sume, of  the  Demonerif  mentioned  dbove.'\ 

J.  C.  Latouraille,  aged  75,  born  at  Paris — ex-noble. 
P.  L.  Foassier,*  aged  90,  born  at  Rouen — ex-noble. 

In  this  fournee  tbe  extreme  of  barbarity  seems  to  have 
been  reached  in  the  butchery  of  the  oldest  womawand 
oldest  man  recorded  among  the  doomed.  Was  it  a  sense 
of  this  culminating  outrage  which  aided  in  raising  that  dis- 
turbance in  St.  Antoine  which  threatened  a  rescue  ?  Did 
the  withered  forms  of  Madame  Maurice  in  her  seventy- 
third,  or  Monsieur  Foassier  in  his  ninetieth  year,  melt  the 
hardened  populace  ?  But  that  populace  rises  in  vain. 
Henriot  who  shall  kiss  the  steel  to-morrow  hurls  upon  it 
his  legions.  The  cry  of  rescue  is  in  vain.  The  wretched 
victims  whose  hearts  beat  with  fresh  hope  as  the  carts 
rumble  on  sink  into  despair,  and  the  carts  stUl  rumble — 

*  Bulwer  in  his  splendid  romance,  Zanoni,  makes  his  heroine  perish 
in  th\n  four7iee.  Tiiis  is  a  not  unwarrantable  liberty,  but  unfortunately 
for  the  author,  the  only  women  numbered  in  it  are  the  three  above  men- 
tioned, all  of  whom  are  too  old  to  be  identified  with  the  young  and  lovely 
Viola. 


262  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

on  to  the  Barriere  die  Trdne.  But  it  is  the  last  time  the  guil- 
lotine shall  stand  at  that  spot — it  is  the  last  time  Fouguier 
shall  send  a  batch  to  die — it  is  the  last  of  Robespierre's 
host  of  victims,  for  this  very  day  his  accusation  is  carried  in 
the  Convention,  Yes,  as  the  axe  falls  on  one  after  the  other 
of  these  wretches,  their  tyrant  may  prepare  to  share  their 
fate.  No  sooner  is  this /bt*m(^e  got  through  with  than  a 
gang  of  workmen  take  down  the  scaffold  and  bear  it  once 
more  to  the  Place  cle  la  Hevolution.  Here  it  will  rei>Gat 
that  fearful  tryst  so  often  kept  with  the  Convention.  To- 
morrow will  be  the  tenth  Thermidor — Decadi^  and  a  high 
day  above  other  Decadis^  for  it  is  the  fete  of  Barra  and 
Viola — a  fete  day  for  Paris,  and  one  memorable  for  blood- 
shed, upheaval,  and  war  of  faction.  Toward  evening  after 
that  day  of  fierce  conflict,  a  range  of  carts  approaches  the 
-P/ggl  de  la  Hevolutlon  with  another  fournce.  It  is  one 
sent'  not  by  the  Tribunal  but  by  the  Convention.  Let  us 
read  their  names  as  they  appear  in  the  printed  list. 

Maximilian  Robespierre,  aged  35,  born  at  Arras — ex- 
Deputy  to  Convention. 

A.  P.  J.  Robespierre, (brother  of  the  above) — 

ex-Deputy. 

G.  Couthon,  aged  38,  born  at  Orsay — ex-Deputy. 

F.  Henriot,  aged  33,  born  at  Nanterre — ex-Commandant 
of  Paris. 

A.  St.  Just,  aged  26,  born  at  Lifer — ex-Deputy. 

Together  with  Dumas,  Payan,  Vivier,  Fleuriot  Lescot, 
all  members  of  Robespierre's  Tribunal,  who  but  yester- 
day sent  their  oAvn  foumee,  as  now  the  Convention  is  send- 
ing them — among  them  also  is  Simon  the  cordwainer,  who 
held  the  princes  in  cruel  durance  in  the  tower,  and  eleven 


S 
3 

-^ 
o 

P. 

o 


d      if'i 


^ 


THE  COMMUNE  OF  PARIS.  263 

members  of  the  Commune  of  Paris.  Such  was  the  besiin- 
ning  of  that  retribution  which  fell  on  Robespierre  and  his 
coadjutors.  That  Commune  which  had  obeyed  his  man- 
dates through  Chaumette,  Hebert,  and  other  of  its  leaders 
whom  he  had  guillotined,  has  fallen  at  last  before  the  Con- 
vention. Such  are  the  sudden  chans^es  of  revolution — a 
few  months  ago  the  Convention  trembled  before  the  Com- 
mune, now  it  has  it  under  foot,  and  will  thoroughly  do  the 
work  of  the  hour.  Is  it  not  a  matter  of  note  that  this  crew 
which  had  sent  so  many  to  death  with  but  the  mockery  of 
a  trial,  should  be  deprived  even  of  that  form  which  Avas 
otfered  to  others  ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  they  should  be 
mis  hor  du  loi,  outlawed,  and  die  as  outlaws  without  judge, 
jury,  or  even  form  of  indictment.  Is  it  not  also  strange 
that  Robespierre  should  perish  on  one  of  his  own  Di'cadis^ 
the  only  one  on  which  the  guillotine  had  ever  been  put  in 
service  ?  That  night  the  brothers  Robespierre,  and  Couthon, 
and  St.  Just,  and  all  their  headless  associates,  lie  in  the 
trench,  and  the  same  trench  holds  hundreds  of  their  vic- 
tims. A  long  mound  marks  the  well  filled  grave,  and  as 
these  last  corpses  are  covered  with  lime  and  gravel,  the 
workmen  may  ask,  are  not  their  mighty  labors  done  ?  For 
\\\.Q%^fouTnee  burials  are  no  little  matters  like  the  single 
interments  of  ordinaiy  life.  No,  not  done  yet,  ye  weary 
grave-diggers,  to-morrow  shall  bring  a  greater  task.  The 
morrow  comes — it  is  the  Christian  Sabbath — the  Lord's 
day,  and  while  in  England  and  America  thousands  are  en- 
gaged in  worship,  Paris  beholds  once  more  the  tumbrel-train. 
Count  them  up — threescore  and  ten ;  never  has  so  large 
and  so  important  a  band  been  carted  to  death.  Who  are 
they,  Girond  in.  Jacobin,  or  il!/b«to^;i«ri.^  Neither!     They 


261  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

are  the  COMMUNE  OF  PARIS,  mis  hordu  lot.  The  City 
Council — the  tools  of  Chaumette  and  Hebert — and  above 
of  all  Robespierre — now  following  their  fallen  master  to  the 
Place  de  la  -Revolution.  Look  down  from  the  spirit  world 
Bourbon,  man  and  wife  !  Look  down  Verguiaud,  and  Ro- 
land !  look  down,  Danton,  and  Clootz,  and  Camilla  Des- 
moiilins,  on  this  wondrous  scene !  Here  died  Louis  and 
Marie  Antoinette — here  died  the  noblesse — here  died  the 
giants  of  the  Convention — here  died  the  Tribunal — here 
died  the  Commune  of  Paris.     Truly,  this  is  expiation ! 

A  week  is  past,  and  the  Lord's  day  once  more  dawns 
upon  wretched  Paris,  but  no  sound  of  Sabbath  bell  charms 
the  reverent  ear.  Toward  evening  a  soUtary  cart  moves 
amid  the  crowd,  and  in  that  cart  a  solitary  victim.  His 
gigantic  form  towers  above  the  mass,  and  he  gazes  wildly 
on  that  scene.  Alone  in  death  instead  of  the  ol^foumee. 
It  is  Coffinhal,  once  senior  judge  of  the  Tribunal,  a  ci-de- 
vant physician,  and  lawyer,  but  still  more  noted  as  one  of 
the  doomed  Commune.,  two-thirds  of  which  has  been  guillo- 
tined within  a  fortnight. 

After  the  horrors  of  Thermidor,  the  Tribunal  was  recon- 
structed, and  continued  its  work.  Among  those  who  receiv- 
ed their  doom  from  its  hands  was  Carrier,  the  murderer 
Jacobin  of  Nantes,  who  had  deluged  that  city  with  blood, 
and  who,  with  twenty-six  of  his  accomplices,  were  sent  to 
the  axe  in  December- 

Bfforc  the  close  of  the  year  it  was  again  dissolved,  and  once 
more  reconstructed,  but  without  those  distinctive  features 
which  had  given  it  the  title  of  "Revolutionary."  The  chief 
employment  of  tiiis  last  institution  was  the  trial  of  Fouquicr 
Tiuville.     He  was  chaigeJ  with  having,  under  color  of  legal 


FOUQUIER  TINVILLE  GUILLOTHSTED.  2G5 

judgment,  "  put  to  death  an  innumerable  body  of  French 
people,  of  each  sex,  and  of  every  age  and  rank."  Following 
those  whom  he  had  so  lately  doomed,  he  appears  in  the 
gloomy  chamber — no  longer  a  public  accuser,  but  a  prisoner. 
The  guards  open  the  way,  and  watch  narrowly  the  form  whose 
mandate  they  once  so  rapidly  obeyed.  Another  accuser  fills 
his  station,  and  as  he  opens  the  charge  and  reads  tlie  catalogue 
of  crime,  the  victims  of  the  atrocious  culprit  seem  to  pass  in 
awful  array,  and  point  the  bloody  hand  at  their  murderer. 
Fouquier  was  young,  yet  who  could  be  summoned  from  the 
page  of  history  to  equal  his  thirst  for  blood"?  But  thirty- 
eight  years  had  been  numbered  in  his  career,  yet  he  had  won 
a  fame  which  makes  us  shudder.  Restless  and  insatiable,  he 
had  sported  with  the  doomed,  of  all  ages  and  conditions. 
Drooping  age  had  vainly  sought  the  sympathy  due  to  hoary 
hairs — widows,  hollow-eyed  and  ghastly,  had  vainly  plead 
for  the  mercy  denied  their  husbands.  Youth — early  sorrow- 
laden — beardless  boys,  snatched  ruthlessly  from  happy 
homes — girls,  pallid  yet  defiant,  in  all  the  majesty  of  female 
innocence,  had  perished  through  his  false  accusations.  It  was 
proved  on  his  trial  that  one  hundred  and  sixty  persons,  of  all 
ages,  sexes  and  ranks,  were  tried  and  executed  on  a  charge 
not  merely  false,  but  absurd,  visionary  and  impossible.  A 
batch  of  forty-five  of  these,  who  were  totally  unknown  to 
each  other,  were  tried  and  condemned  within  twenty  minutes, 
and  executed  the  same  evening. 

Fouquier  Tinville  was  gory  with  the  best  blood  of  France, 
and  on  the  seventh  of  May,  1795 — ^just  one  year  from  the 
date  of  the  most  fearful  episodes  of  his  murderous  career — 
his  own  blood  flows  down  the  scaffold.    Fifteen  accomplices, 

consisting  of  judges,  jurors  and  witnesses,  suffered  at  the 

12 


2GG 


THE  TRIBUNAL. 


same  time.  They  were  followed  to  the  guillotine  by  a  class 
vastly  diflerent  from  the  rabble  which  so  commonly  surround- 
ed the  tumbrel.  Thousands  of  the  respectable  citizens  of  Paris 
paced  in  indignant  procession,  hurling  their  reproaches  on 
the  wholesale  murderers,  now  on  the  way  to  doom,  and  who 
had  robbed  the  one  of  a  wife — another  of  a  father,  a  mother, 

or  a  child. 

********* 

If,  then,  the  extirpation  of  Christianity  involved  the  loss  of 
those  principles  which  conserve  national  integrity,  until 
liberty  and  justice  perished,  it  is  well  to  consider  that  the 
great  and  inflexible  Judge  who  decrees  justice  upon  all,  often 
causes  the  wicked  to  execute  retribution  upon  themselves. 
This  is  a  i-edeeming  feature  in  the,  scenes  which  we  have 
been  contemplating.  As  one  views  their  progressive  lessons, 
they  seem  to  exclaim,  "Judgment  done  on  an  Atheist  age!" 

Justice,  banished  by  Infidelity,  returned  to  overwhelm  the 
miscreants  who  had,  in  her  name,  rioted  in  innocent  blood. 

"  Thou  hast  spoken  right — 'tis  true, 
The  wheel  has  come  full  circle." 


BOOK    SIXTH. 


THE     PHILOSOPHER, 


"It  is  true  that  a  little  philosophy  inclineth  man  to  Atheism, 

BUT  DEPTH  IN  PHILOSOPHY  BRINGETH  MEN's  MINDS  BACK  TO  RELIGION;  FOR 
WHILE  THE  MIND  OP  MAN  LOOKETH  ON  "SECOND  CAUSES  SCATTERED,  IT  MAY 
SOMETIMES  REST  IN  THEM,  AND  GO  NO  FARTHER;  BUT  WHEN  IT  BEHOLDETH 
THE    CHAIN    OF    THEM    CONFEDERATE    AND    LINKED    TOGETHER,    IT    MUST    NEEDS 

FLY  TO  Providence  and  Deity." — Lord  Bacon. 


THE     PHILOSOPHER. 


THE  subjective  operations  of  Faith,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  Unbelief  on  the  other,  open  a  vast  field,  and  one 
which  is  as  instructive  as  it  is  inexhaustible.  It  is  evident 
that  the  intellect  has  suffered  less  from  the  flxll  than  any  other 
of  the  human  faculties;  and  amid  the  general  ruin  of  the 
race  it  towers  aloft,  in  crumbling  grandeur,  marking  by  its 
noble  proportions  the  extent  of  that  catastrophe  of  which  it  is 
a  victim.  Hence  the  contrast  between  the  influences  of  Piety 
and  Infidelity  increases  proportionately  as  we  ascend  the 
intellectual  scale.  This  is  illustrated  by  a  comparison  of 
Hobbes  with  Bishop  Butler,  D'Holbach  with  Chalmers;  and — 
to  add  two  others,  whose  minds  were  still  more  akin  in  point 
of  logical  acumen  and  philosophical  discrimination — David 
Hume  and  Jonathan  Edwards.  To  the  latter  has  been  accor- 
ded a  rank  not  less  than  that  of  compeer  of  Plato ;  yet  by 
exhibiting  the  higher  glory  of  Christianity,  he  proves  to  the 
world  that  this  alone  can  give  the  chief  grace  to  the  intellect. 
He  is  therefore  an  admirable  illustration  of  that  aphorism 
with  which  we  have  prefaced  this  sketch,  in  which  it  is  given 


270  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

as  the  experience  of  one  of  the  best  thinkers  of  the  modern 
age,  that  it  is  not  a  great,  but  a  little  philosophy  "  which 
inclineth  man  to  Atheism^ 

In  contemplating  those  whose  minds  are  given  closely  to 
study,  and  whose  lives  are  secluded  from  the  world,  and 
thereby  insulated  from  temptation,  we  may  expect  the 
results  of  Infidelity  (supposing  such  an  one  to  be  thus  unfor- 
tunate,) either  in  the  inner  conflicts  of  the  soul,  or  in  those 
lessons  which  flow  forth  upon  the  world.  Hence,  in  closing 
this  series  of  sketches,  we  add  an  outline  of  one  who  was 
separate  from  the  foregoing  in  respect  to  exemption  from 
crime,  or  even  vice,  while  his  teachings  tend  indirectly  but  not 
less  strongly  to  promote  vice  and  crime  in  others;  and  who, 
while  protected  by  barriers  of  habit  and  constitution  from  the 
indulgence  of  the  passions,  published  doctrines  which  inevi- 
tably lead  others  to  such  indulgence.  It  is  no  little  tribute 
to  the  shrewd  essayist  that  the  refutation  of  his  schemes  has 
exercised  controversial  powers  of  the  highest  order.  Both 
Bcattie  and  Brown  have  handled  them  at  such  length  and  with 
such  skill  as  to  leave  little  to  be  added;  and  referring  the 
student  to  their  pages,  we  simply  purpose  to  trace  the  retro- 
grade of  a  strong  but  benighted  intellect. 

********* 

The  history  of  Scotland — so  thrilling  and  romantic — so 
full,  too,  of  lights  and  shadows,  hung  in  the  most  dramatic 
contrasts,  reserves  its  darkest  episodes  until  a  modern  day. 
Indeed,  since  that  obscure  era  which  preceded  her  early 
struggle  for  liberty,  no  cloud  has  shrouded  her  annals  so 
threatening  as  that  which  shadowed  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  With  respect  to  morals  and  faith,  it  was 
a  time  ol  drear  eclipse,  which  threatened  to  forever  hide  the 


CHAPTER  OF  MAETYRDOMS.  271 

morning  of  the  Reformation.  That  morning  had  dawned 
two  centuries  before,  axad  as  its  genial  light  overspread  the 
nation,  Scotland  broke  the  bondage  of  popish  superstition, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  new-born  glory  of  religious  liberty.  Her 
pulpits  were  filled  by  men  who,  for  zeal  and  courage,  were  . 
worthy  of  apostolic  days.  Learning  having  received  vigor 
and  protection  from  the  new-born  faith,  her  Universities 
began  to  flourish,  and  the  rude  peasantry  were  fused  by  the 
power  of  Piety.  Even  the  Highlands,  where  superstition  was 
entrenched  in  the  unbroken  barbarism  of  ages,  would  soon 
have  been  subdued  by  the  same  energy  which  had  wrought 
wonders  wherever  it  had  penetrated. 

But  this  fair  morning,  after  an  auspicious  dawn,  was  robbed 

of  its  promise  by  a  corrupt  and  malignant  power.     The  fires 

of  persecution,  which  had  previously  laid  waste  the  piety  of 

England,  under  the  reign  of  "bloody  Mary,"  were  lighted  in 

the  North  by  one  well  worthy  to  be  her  successor.     The 

Stuart  plied  the  land  of  his  ancestors  with  alternate  craft  and 

oppression,  and  perjury  and  cruelty  stalked  the  land,  until 

its  prisons  were  either  filled  with  saints,  or  its  heather  stained 

with  their  blood.    It  was  an  epoch  hallowed  by  a  great  cloud 

of  witnesses,  whose  psalms  and  groans  ascended  from  dank 

and  slimy  dungeons,  and  whose  ashes  were  scattered  by  the 

winds  until  the  fragrance  of  martyrdom  was  wafted  upward 

ill  sacred  exhalements.     Although  it  be  true  that  the  blood 

of  the  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  the  church,  yet  that  seed  often 

lies   many  a  year   in   the  dust.     After  a  quarter   century 

of  persecution,  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  lay  in  almost  hopeless 

prostration,  and  even  Claverhouse  could  hardly  have  hoped  for 

her  more  complete  destruction.     Her  ministry,  so  illustrious 

for  piety  and  learning,  was  almost  extinct,  and  martyrdom,  or 


^Y2  THE  PHILOSOniER. 

banishment,  or  flight  had  wasted  the  flock.  Such  as  survived 
found  their  influence  lost  in  the  flood  of  general  declension 
which  followed  this  exhaustion  of  vitality  and  power.  The 
parishes  having  been  robbed  of  their  faithful  pastors,  were 
encumbered  by  Godless  hirelings,  like  those  at  whom  Milton 
points  the  finger  of  scorn : 

*'  Such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold. 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast. 

And  shove  away  the  worthy,  bidden  guest. 

******** 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up  and  are  not  fed, 
Bnt  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
Beside  what  the  grim  wolf,  with  privy  paw, 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said." 

These  very  features  which  excited  the  poet's  contempt  and 
indignation  now  became  a  recommendation  to  patronage,  and 
to  express  the  character  of  such  a  clergy  a  term  was  coined 
whose  stigma  still  clings  to  the  word  moderate.  Under  such 
baleful  influences  the  wheels  of  social  progress  reversed  their 
motion,  and  it  became  a  period  of  national  weakness,  and 
even  shame.  Such  seasons  of  decline  seem  to  procreate 
error,  as  the  Python  was  bred  amid  heat  and  marshy  exhala- 
tions, and  it  was  at  such  a  time  that  Scotland  gave  birth  to 
the  chief  foe  of  her  piety.  The  union  of  Scotland  and 
England,  which  took  place  in  1707,  seemed  to  precipitate  the 
reverses  of  the  former,  and  it  was  common  at  that  day  to 
impute  them  to  that  event.  The  people  saw  the  dignity  of 
an  ancient  kingdom  jiass  away,  and  no  longer  boiu'ld  in  Holy- 


THE  YOUNG  PHILOSOPHER.  273 

rood  the  splendors  of  the  royal  court.  The  declension  of 
character  was  beyond  denial;  but  was  it  due  to  the  abroga- 
tion of  nationality  alone?  No;  there  had  been  for  years  a 
crushing  out  of  piety,  which  resulted  in  the  inevitable  decline 
in  national  stamina.  Persecution  had  devoured  the  previous 
generation,  culling  out  for  death  the  strong  of  heart  and  the 
pure  of  soul,  and  the  land  thus  shorn  of  its  strength  confessed 
its  impotency  both  in  the  council  and  in  the  field.  Yet  by  a 
strange  though  natural  inversion,  this  period  of  weakness  was 
the  palmy  time  of  Infidelity,  and  only  this  complete  exhaus- 
tion of  truth  could  have  prepared  the  way  for  so  bold  an 
invasion  of  error, 

David  Hume  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  in  ITll.  He  drew 
his  ancestry  from  a  high-born  stock,  and  though  but  the  son 
of  an  impoverished  laird,  could  boast  of  gentle  blood,  derived, 
indeed,  from  the  ancient  peerage.  Among  the  early  events 
of  his  life  is  recorded  his  attempt  to  study  law,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen — a  pursuit  which  was  soon  abandoned  in  disgust, 
as  his  mind  was  much  better  pleased  with  Virgil  and  the 
classics  than  with  Vost,  or  Coke  on  Lyttleton.  A  strong 
proclivity  to  the  ancient  moralists  indicates  his  first  wandering 
from  Christianity,  and  we  here  note  with  pain  the  small 
beginnings  which  resulted  in  a  life  of  error.  As  though  there 
were  no  safe  rules  of  life  to  be  found  in  the  ScriptuT^s  he 
writes  a  friend:  "Having  read  many  books  of  morality,  sucfi 
as  Cicero,  Seneca,  and  Plutarch,  and  being  smit  with  their, 
beautiful  representations  of  virtue  and  philosophy,  I  under- 
took the  improvement  of  my  temper  and  will,  along  with  my 
reason  and  understanding.  I  w^as  continually  fortifying 
myself  with  reflections  against  death,  and  poverty,  and  shame, 
and  pain,  and  all  the  other  calamities  of  life."     Now  one 


274  THE  PHILOSOrHER. 

could  not  object  to  the  examples  here  cited,  if  he  could  have 
found  nothing  better;  but  had  the  young  moralist  examined 
the  history  of  his  native  land,  he  might  have  discovered  that 
more  excellent  way  by  which  thousands  of  her  children  had 
been  fortified  against  death,  and  shame,  and  poverty,  and 
enabled  not  merely  to  endure  but  to  overcome.  But  with 
eyes  averted  from  these  glorious  examj)les,  we  find  him  bur- 
rowing in  antique  stoicism,  and  seeking  strength  trom  Seneca 
instead  of  Christ. 

About  this  time  he  accepted  a  clerkship  in  Bristol,  which 
one  may  imagine  must  have  been  highly  uncongenial. 
The  ambition  of  an  earnest  mind  revolted  from  the  dull 
walks  of  trade,  and  he  visited  France  in  pursuit  of  intellec- 
tual culture.  It  was  an  unhappy  hour  when  he,  whose  mind 
had  been  gradually  obscured,  entered  a  land  where  truth  was 
hardly  known.  To  such  an  one  France  was  but  a  labyrinth 
without  a  clue,  and  the  young  enquirer  sought  light  in  a  region 
long  shadowed  by  the  night  of  error.  We  have  no  history 
of  the  approaches  by  which  the  siege  was  carried  on,  but  in  a 
foreign  land,  and  at  an  early  age,  he  made  a  fiUl  surrender  to 
his  worst  enemy.  That  Hume's  mind  at  this  time  was  plied 
with  weighty  questions  is  evident  from  the  early  develop- 
ment of  his  argument  against  Miracles,  which  was  suggested 
by  a  discussion  with  a  priest  at  Saint  Omers.  Tliis  argument, 
now  so  completely  refuted,  was  well  worthy  of  its  origin.  It 
was  engendered  in  the  mind  of  an  ingenious  but  self-conceited 
youth  by  the  quibbles  of  a  perplexed  ecclesiastic.  Alas! 
both  parties  to  the  controversy  were  in  Cimmerian  darkness! 

Of  this  argument,  Hume  became  inordinately  pi'oud;  and 
it  has  given  him  a  prominence  among  those  errorists  who  are 
met  at  the  outset  by  the  Christian  evidences.     It  is  a  distinc- 


THE  ARGUMENT  AGAINST  MIRACLES.  275 

tion  which  few  will  envy,  since  the  mere  power  of  destruction, 
however  skilfully  it  may  be  used,  is  one  of  the  lowest  order. 
In  1737  Hume  returned  from  France.  Though  but  in  his 
twenty-eighth  year,  he  had  fully  developed  his  Atheistic 
philosophy,  and  the  "Treatise  on  Human  Nature,"  which  was 
soon  published,  remained  his  standard  through  life. 

The  appearance  of  this  volume  marked  the  darkest  hour 
for  religion  which  Britain  had  known  for  nearly  two  centuries. 
The  lights  of  the  past  age  had  disappeared,  and  a  few  tapers, 
which  glimmered  feebly,  only  served  to  show  the  depth  of 
the  general  gloom.  Seventy  years  previously  the  Act  of 
Conformity  had  cast  out  sixteen  hundred  ministers  from  their 
parishes.  Some  of  these  faithful  men  died  in  sorrow  * — some 
still  adhered  to  their  work,  preaching  at  midnight  in  barns, 
and  even  in  forests — some,  like  Bunyan,  endured  long  and 
crushing  imprisonment.     As  a  direct  result,  it  is  on  record 

*  "  Behold  how  many  ministers  have  these  eight  or  ten  years  been  si- 
lenced, in  England,  Scotland  and  Ireland,  whose  holy  skill,  and  conscience, 
and  fidelity,  and  zeal  is  such  as  would  have  justly  advanced  most  of  the 
ancient  fathers  of  the  Church  to  far  greater  renown,  had  they  been  but 
possessed  with  the  Hke — of  whom  the  woiid  was  not  worthy.  0,  how 
many  of  them  am  I  constrained  to  remember  with  joy  for  their  great 
worth,  and  sorrow  for  their  silence.  Alas,  Lord !  what  is  the  terrible  fu- 
ture evil  from  which  thou  takest  such  men  away  ?  And  why  is  this  world 
so  much  forsaken,  as  if  it  were  not  a  prayer  of  hope  which  thou  hast 
taught  us  ?  Till/  will  he  done  on  earthy  as  it  is  in  Heaveny — Mrs.  Tlieodosia 
Alleine,  A.D.  1666,  on  the  Imprisonment  of  her  Hiishand,  Rev.  Joseph 
Alleine. 

"  This  is  a  black  day  upon  Israel,  when  so  many  faithful  ministers  are 
slain  at  one  blow.  This  is  a  day  of  gloominess  and  darkness  in  many 
congregations,  for  so  many  ministers  to  be  beheaded  in  one  day. — Mr, 
BnlFs  Farewell  Sermon^  on  being  Ejected. 


276  THE  PHILOSOPHEK. 

that  the  distinctive  doctrines  of  the  Reformation  were  lost 
to  the  masses,  until  \ital  piety  became  almost  a  dream  of 
the  past.  The  established  church,  the  only  popular  means  of 
grac-e,  was  supplied  from  hungry  ranks  of  time-ser\'ing 
graduates,  whose  indispensable  qualifications  were  reduced 
to  these  two — a  patron  and  a  diploma.  As  for  the  Universi- 
ti^,  it  is  not  too  much  to  afiirm  that  notwithstanding  their 
ecclesiastical  character  and  their  church-bred  professors,  they 
could  no  longer  be  identified  with  piety,  and  hardly  with 
learning.  It  is  true  that  subscription  to  the  thirty-nine 
articles  was  demanded  of  all,  but  this  had  long  been  viewed 
as  an  easy  form,  involving  no  exercise  ol  conscience,  while 
like  charity,  it  covered  a  multitude  of  sins. 

Gibbon,  in  his  autobiography,  has  sketched  Oxford  life 
with  vivid  colors,  and  as  he  reviews  the  wretched  picture 
of  which  he  once  formed  a  part,  he  seems  to  count  his  expul- 
sion one  of  the  happiest  events  in  his  life.  It  certainly 
rescued  him  from  the  society  of  beer-gtizzling  fellows,  and  a 
life  of  obese  indolenc-e,  and  made  him  the  great  historian  of 
the  Roman  empire.  Indifferent  as  Gibbon's  description  may 
be,  when  considered  merely  ^ith  regard  to  himself,  it  becomes 
hideous  when  viewed  as  a  picture  of  the  hope  of  the  church ; 
nor  can  we  be  surprised  to  learn  that  a  clergy  inspired  by 
such  influences  developed,  with  few  exceptions,  in  indolence 
and  luxurv,  and  even  in  vice.  Abandonincj  their  sacred 
duties  to  ignorant  and  ill-paid  curates,  their  days  M-ere  given 
to  the  field-sports  of  the  squirearchy,  while  their  nights  wit- 
nessed a  corresponding  convi>iality.  Exceptions  to  this  style 
of  life  might  be  found  in  those  of  an  intellectual  turn,  but 
should  the  parson  give  himself  to  letters,  it  would  usually  be, 
like  Swift,  to  pen  obscene  satire,  or  like  Sterne,  to  detail  adve:i- 


DODD  A2sD  CHUECHILL.  277 

tures  which  shame  alike  the  author  and  his  sacred  profession. 
Amid  such  degradation  of  the  establishment,  we  hardly 
wonder  that  Fielding's  highest  conception  of  a  parson  was 
either  the  harmless,  patient,  and  almost  imbecile  Abraham 
Adams — the  good-humored  butt  of  every  joke,  or  the  swinish 
groveller,  Trulliber. 

Passing  from  fiction  to  the  records  of  the  day,  one  may 
find  Dodd,  after  a  career  of  splendid  luxury,  executed  at 
Tyburn  for  forgery,  while  the  gifted  ChurchiU,  a  clergyman, 
and  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  proved  an  example  of  still  more 
monstrous  vice.  The  latter  has  given  a  sketch  of  some  of 
the  abandoned  clergy  of  his  day,  and  although  he  is  hardly 
authority  for  the  character  of  the  profession,  yet  there  must 
have  been  many  a  one  imder  his  eye  who  could  have  sat 
for  the  picture : 

"  Grown  old  in  Tillainy,  and  dead  to  grace ; 
Hell  in  his  heart,  and  Tybnm  m  his  face ; 
Behold  a  parson  at  thy  elbow  stand. 
Lowering  damnation  with  open  hand ; 
Ripe  to  betray  his  Saviour  for  reward, 
The  Athdst  chaplain  of  an  Atheist  lord.* 

The  poetry  of  the  age  had  followed  the  popular  cm-rent. 
But  a  century  before,  ^lilton  had  penned  sonnets  and  epics — 
all  redolent  with  piety — setting  forth  divine  things,  in  lan- 
guage almost  divine;  but  now,  whatever  of  religious  sentiment 
was  wrought  into  verse,  appeared  in  the  mould  of  ancient 
mythology.  Strephon  and  Palemon,  and  Doris,  alternated 
in  vapid  eclogues,  and  these  travesties,  admired  in  drawing- 
rooms,  and  Sling  at  Ranelagh,  revived  the  joys  and  deities  of 
the  Arcadiam  age.  Inspired  by  tliis  sentimentalism,  Sheu- 
stone  ornamented  his  famous  grounds,  '*'  the  *Leasowes,"  ^dth 


278  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

statues  and  inscriptions  to  the  mythological  deities,  and 
Philips,  who  is  almost  forgotten,  contended  with  Pope  (then 
a  boy,)  for  the  bays  of  heathenism.* 

If  anything  were  necessary  to  strengthen  the  vast  aggregate 
of  unbelief  already  buttressed  by  Hobbes,  it  was  to  be  found 
in  the  writings  of  Shaftesbury  and  Bolingbroke.  The  latter, 
after  a  career  of  political  vicissitude,  was  commanding  the 
homage  of  the  literary  and  philosophical  world,  and  having 
lent  his  patronage  to  Pope,  was  rewarded  by  dedications  and 
flattering  epistles.  Indeed,  the  poet  having  out-grown  the 
pastoral  ditties  of  his  youth,  changed  his  flowery  mythology 
for  dark  and  cheerless  Deism,  and  gave  his  patrons  philoso- 
phy in  the  measures  of  his  pungent  rhyme.  Reinforcements 
to  the  ranks  of  error  seemed  hardly  needed,  since  opposition 
had  almost  ceased,  yet  at  such  a  time  the  youthful  Scotsman, 
jubilant  of  his  newly-found  argument  against  miracles,  pub- 
lished his  "Treatise  on  Human  Nature."  Its  issue,  as  we 
have  stated,  marked  the  darkest  hour  in  the  ecclesiastical 
history  of  the  kingdom.  Such  indeed  was  the  abasement 
which  Christianity  had  reached,  that  Bishop  Butler,  on  the 
publication  of  his  "Analogy,"  was  constrained  to  preface  it 
with  an  apology,  admitting  that  the  reader  "will  observe 
several  things  which  will  appear  to  him  of  very  little  impor- 
tarnce  if  he  can  think  things  to  be  of  little  importance,  which 
are  of  any  real  weight  at  all  upon  such  a  subject  as  re- 
ligion." 

*  *  "It  is  come,  I  know  not  how,  to  be  taken  for  granted 

*  It  is  quite  remarkable  that  this  false  and  artificial  school  of  poetry 
phould  have  been  overthrown  by  one  who  at  best  was  but  a  broken  reed. 
William  Co\rper,  whose  highest  ambition  was  to  be  called  a  Cftri.iHan 
poet,  restored  nature  to  English  poetry,  and  superadded  the  grace  of  true 
piety.  * 


BUTLER  AND  HUME.  279 

by  many  persons  that  Christianity  is  not  so  much  a  subject  of 
inquiry,  but  that  it  is  now  at  length  discovered  to  be  ficti- 
tious, and  accordingly  they  treat  it  as  if  in  the  present  age 
this  were  an  agreed  point  among  all  people  of  discernment, 
and  nothing  remained  but  to  set  it  up  as  a  principal  subject 
of  mirth  and  ridicule,  as  it  were  by  way  of  reprisal  for  its 
having  so  long  interrupted  the  pleasures  of  the  world."  * 
Yet  dark  as  that  hour  then  seemed  to  be,  its  gloom  was  soon 
to  yield  to  the  returning  light  of  the  gospel.  For  twenty 
years  previously.  Bishop  Butler  had  been  elaborating  that 
argument,  which,  although  so  humbly  advertised,  was  hence- 
forth to  stand  impregnable.  Its  publication  was  nearly 
contemporaneous  with  that  of  Hume's  assault  on  miracles, 
and  from  their  very  antagonism  both  volumes  have  preserved 
to  a  later  age  the  strong  antithesis  of  their  inception.  It  is 
not  remarkable  that  he  who  thought  himself  the  chief  logician 
of  his  day,  as  he  was  its  master  errorist,  should  have  been 
eclipsed  by  one  whose  defence  of  truth  exhibits  a  far  mightier 
grasp  of  mind.  They  were  both  giants,  but  the  one  exhibited 
the  stately  proportions  of  a  colossus,  while  the  other  was  the 
Cyclop,  whose  mental  deformities  revive  the  classic  sketch, 
and  of  whom  it  might  most  truly  have  been  said,  '^cui  lumen 
ademptuni.^'' 

While  Butler  was  building  his  stately  argument  in  clois- 
tered retirement,  Methodism  had  set  Oxford  a-blaze,  and  the 
little  band  of  earnest  reformers  had  at  least  broken  that 
dreamy  torpor  beneath  which  whole  generations,  both  of 
teacher  and  scholar,  had  lain  stagnant.  To  all  who  might 
discern  the  signs  of  the  times,  it  was  evident  that  the  age 
was  in  travail  with  a  new  birth,  yet  few  could  have  dreamed 

*  Preface  to  "The  Analogy." 


280  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

of  the  power  of  that  assault  which  was  about  to  be  made  on 
ignorance  and  error.  The  Oxford  Methodists  soon  found  a 
broader  sphere  than  the  University.  The  Wesleys  had 
already  taken  the  field,  and  in  1739  George  Whitefield,  the 
greatest  preacher  of  the  age,  commenced  his  itineracy  at 
Bristol.  The  Countess  of  Huntingdon,  whose  zeal  and  piety 
have  made  her  name  precious  as  ointment  poured  forth,  shone 
like  a  solitary  star  amid  the  dark  host  of  titled  Infidelity. 
Throwing  open  her  grand  saloons  to  religious  reunions,  she 
brought  crowds  of  gay  nobility,  brilliant  with  the  aristocratic 
beauties  of  the  day,  beneath  the  power  of  Whitefield's  melting 
oratory,  and  it  is  said  that  even  Bolingbroke  and  Chesterfield 
occasionally  omitted  an  evening  at  club  or  coffee-house  to 
listen  to  the  ardent  evangelist.  From  that  memorable  time 
until  the  present  the  assault  has  been  earnestly  pressed,  and 
in  her  combat,  hand  to  hand,  Truth  has  so  successfully  re- 
covered her  lost  ground,  that  we  may  compare  the  past  and 
the  present  with  joy  and  gratitude.  It  is  evident  that  this 
grand  revolution  in  the  moral  Avorld  astonished  the  enemies 
of  Christianity.  Indeed,  in  1776,  shortly  before  his  death, 
Hume  thus  bewails  approaching  defeat  in  a  letter  to  Gibbon : 
"But  among  other  marks  of  a  decline,  the  prevalence  of 
superstition  in  England  prognosticates  the  fall  of  philosophy 
and  decay  of  taste,  and  though  nobody  be  more  capable  than 
yourself  to  revive  them,  you  will  pi'obably  find  a  struggle  in 
your  first  advances." 

This  review  of  the  moral  aspect  of  the  past  century  throws 
much  light  on  Hume's  preparation  for  the  high  office  of 
historian,  and  will  account  for  the  obliquity  of  his  prejudices, 
while  it  also  explains  the  reason  why  his  position  was  not 
earlier  oppugned.     Many  reasons  have  been  given  for  the 


AN  INFIDEL  HISTORIAN.  281 

high  distinction  which  he  has  enjoyed  for  a  century,  but  it  is 
sufficient  to  refer  to  these  two — the  beautiful  simplicity  of 
his  style,  and  his  priority  in  respect  to  time.  It  is  true  that 
both  England  and  Scotland  had  their  early  chroniclers — 
tquaint  and  careful  scribes — who,  while  gathering  crude 
material,  never  aspired  to  a  higher  name;  but  Hume  was  the 
first  to  shape  these  varied  records  into  the  dignified  form 
of  history.  Yet  it  is  evident  that  the  school  in  which  he 
was  educated  for  this  great  task  had,  by  a  singular  malforma- 
tion, unfitted  him  for  grasping  the  philosophy  of  history. 
His  mental  pabulum  had  for  years  been  mere  speculation, 
and  his  daily  walk  led  through  chill  and  dreary  doubt. 
Having  lost  sight  of  God,  as  the  end  of  all  things,  the  only 
end  that  he  could  propose  was  "utility."  This  is  exalted, 
to  quote  his  own  words,  as  "the  sole  source  of  that  high  re- 
gard paid  to  justice,  fidelity,  honor,  allegiance,  and  chastity; 
as  inseparable  from  all  the  other  social  virtues,  humanity, 
generosity,  charity,  affability,  lenity,  mercy,  and  moderation; 
and  in  a  word,  a  foundation  for  the  chief  part  of  morals  which 
has  a  reference  to  mankind  and  our  fellow  creatures." 

"We  do  not  purpose  a  close  examination  of  Hume's  system, 
yet  we  cannot  but  refer  to  those  salient  points,  which  startle 
even  the  cursory  reader.  Commencing  as  he  does,  with  steps 
averted  from  the  truth,  he  can  only  follow  a  descending  path, 
and  we  are  not  surprised  that  one  who  has  gone  over  to  sheer 
utilitarianism  should  soon  imagine  a  great  discovery  of  the 
falsity  of  Divine  Providence.  Yet  how  strange  to  hear 
words  like  these  from  one  who  assumes  the  historic  pen? 
"In  short,  the  conduct  of  events,  or  what  we  call  the  plan  of 
a  particular  providence,  is  so  full  of  variety  and  uncertainty, 
that  if  we  suppose  it  immediately  ordered  by  any  intelligent 


282  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

being,  we  must  acknowledge  a  contrariety  in  their  designs 
and  intentions — a  constant  combat  of  opposite  powers,  and  a 
repentance  or  change  of  intention  in  the  same  power  from 
impotence  or  levity."  * 

Having  investigated  Christianity,  and  discovered  its  insuffi- 
ciency to  meet  the  demands  of  his  philosophic  mind,  he  is 
soon  led  to  consider  the  benefits  of  Polytheism,  which  are 
thus  described:  "From  the  comparison  of  Theism  and 
Idolatry  we  may  form  some  other  observations  which  confirm 
the  vulgar  remark,  that  the  corruption  of  the  best  things 
gives  rise  to  the  worst.  Where  the  Deity  is  represented  as 
infinitely  superior  to  mankind,  this  belief,  though  altogether 
just,  is  apt,  when  joined  with  superstitious  terrors,  to  sink 
the  human  mind  into  the  lowest  submission  and  abasement, 
and  to  represent  the  monkish  virtues  of  mortification,  penance, 
humility,  and  passive  suffering,  as  the  only  qualities  which 
are  acceptable  to  him.  But  when  the  gods  are  conceived 
to  be  only  a  little  superior  to  mankind,  and  to  have  been 
many  of  them  advanced  from  that  inferior  rank,  we  are  more 
at  our  ease  in  our  addresses  to  them,  and  may,  even  without 
profaneness,  aspire  sometimes  to  a  rivalship  and  emulation 
of  them.  Hence  activity  of  spirit,  courage,  magnanimity, 
love  of  liberty,  and  all  the  virtues  which  aggrandize  a 
people."  f  His  conclusion  as  to  the  varied  benefits  of  these 
two  schemes  of  religion  is  thus  stated :  "  Upon  the  whole,  the 
greatest  and  most  observable  differences  between  a  traditional 
mythological  religion  and  a  systematical  scholastic  one,  are 
two:  the  former  is  often  more  reasonable,  as  consisting  only 
of  a  multitude  of  stories  which,  however  groundless,  imply  no 
express  absurdity  and  demonstrative  contradiction;  and  it 

*  Ediuburg  Edition,  vol.  2,  pp.  408.         f  ^p.  440. 


SOPHISTRY  OF  A  MATERIALIST.  283 

sits  also  so  easy  and  so  light  on  men's  minds,  that  though  it 
may  be  as  universally  received,  it  makes  no  such  deep  im- 
pression on  the  affections  and  understanding."* 

In  these  speculations  he  attempts  an  insidious  attack  on 
Christianity,  which  he  contemptuously  styles  "scholastic 
theology,"  and  pursuing  his  attempts  at  reasoning,  a  masked 
battery  thus  opens  upon  us.  "For  beside  the  unavoidable 
incoherence  which  must  be  reconciled  and  adjusted,  one  may 
safely  affirm  that  all  popular  theology,  especially  the  scholas- 
tic, has  a  kind  of  appetite  for  absurdity  and  contradiction. 
If  that  theology  went  not  beyond  reason  and  common  sense, 
her  doctrines  would  appear  too  easy  and  familiar.  Amaze- 
ment must  of  necessity  be  raised;  mystery  affected ;  darkness 
and  obscurity  sought  after,  and  a  foundation  of  merit 
afforded  to  the  devout  votaries,  who  desire  an  opportunity 
of  subduing  their  rebellious  reason  by  a  belief  of  the  most 
unintelligible  sophisms.  ******  To  oppose  the  torrent 
of  scholastic  religion  by  such  feeble  maxims  as  these,  that  it 
is  impossible  for  the  same  thing  to  he  and  not  to  be — that  the 
xvhole  is  greater  than  a  part — that  two  and  three  make  five, 
is  pretending  to  stop  the  ocean  with  a  bullrush.  AVill  you 
set  up  profane  reason  against  sacred  mystery?  No  punish- 
ment is  great  enough  for  your  impiety ;  and  the  same  fires 
which  were  lighted  for  heretics,  will  serve  also  for  the 
destruction  of  philosophers." 

A  little  farther  on  we  find  him  dealing  the  charge  of 
hypocrisy  against  his  opponents,  as  though  no  one  but  an 
unbeliever  could  be  sincere :  "  We  may  observe  that  notwith- 
standing the  dogmatical,  imperious  style  of  all  superstition, 
the  conviction  of  the  religionists  in  all  ages  is  more  affected 

*  Pp.  456.  f  Pp.  444. 


284  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

than  real,  and  scarcely  ever  approaches  in  any  degree  to  that 
solid  belief  and  persuasion  which  governs  us  in  the  common 
affairs  of  life.  Men  dare  not  avow,  even  to  thdr  own  hearts, 
the  doubts  which  they  entertain  on  such  subjects.  They 
make  a  merit  of  implicit  faith,  and  disguise  to  themselves 
their  real  Infidelity  by  the  strongest  asseverations,  and  most 
positive  bigotry.  But  nature  is  too  hard  for  all  their 
endeavors,  and  suffers  not  the  obscure  glimmering  lights 
afforded  in  those  shadowy  regions  to  equal  the  strong  impres- 
sions made  by  common  sense  and  experience.  The  usual 
course  of  men's  conduct  belies  their  words,  and  shows  that 
their  assent  in  these  matters  is  some  unaccountable  operation 
of  the  mind  between  disbelief  and  conviction,  but  approach- 
ing much  nearer  the  former  than  to  the  latter."  * 

Thus  the  unbeliever  being  unable  to  account  for  the 
endurance  of  the  people  of  God  under  persecution  and  trial, 
denies  the  honesty  of  their  profession,  and  hurls  upon  the 
Christian  world  the  accusation  of  fraud.  Had  this  been  uttered 
in  a  land  where  the  light  of  Christianity  had  never  shone,  we 
might  withhold  our  surprise;  but  so  far  from  this  being  the 
case,  they  fall  from  one  born  amid  a  scenery  consecrated  by 
martyrdoms,  and  in  whose  youth  the  memory  of  the  witnesses 
was  still  fresh.  Indeed,  he  could  have  found  many  a  survivor 
of  the  days  of  Claverhouse,  still  in  venerable  age,  rehears- 
ing the  sufferings  and  constancy  of  Scotland's  martyrs. 
Yet  in  his  view  their  religious  character  is  a  sham;  and  thus 
does  the  historian  of  a  nation  impeach  the  most  illustrious  of 
its  children,  and  rob  it  of  its  glory.  In  his  estimation, 
Margaret  Wilson,  of  Wigton;  Hugh  McKail,  John  Brown, 
of  Pi'iest  Hill;   James  Fraser;   Richard  Cameron,  and  the 

*  Pp.  451. 


SCOTLAND  EOBBED  OF  ITS  GLORY.  285 

pvisoners  of  the  Bass  Rock,  were  "like  the  religionists  of  all 
ages,"  moved  by  "conviction  more  affected  than  real."  Their 
experiences  did  not  approach  that  "  solid  belief  which  governs 
us  in  the  common  affairs  of  life,"  and  they  disguised  to  their 
own  consciousness  "their  real  infidelity  by  the  strongest 
asseverations,  and  most  positive  bigotry."  Against  these 
dishonorable  imputations  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  stands  in  calm, 
yet  indignant  denial.  Indeed,  she  makes  her  highest  boast 
of  those  whom  her  historian  contemns,  and  from  Bothwell 
Brig,  and  Air's  Moss,  and  Wigton  Beach,  and  from  many  a 
scene  of  suffering  and  of  triumphant  faith — some  indeed 
unknown  save  to  God  alone — is  echoed  back  a  solemn  vindi- 
cation of  their  fame. 

From  quotations  such  as  these  we  may  see  how  impene- 
trable is  that  shadow  which  buries  the  soul  of  the  self- 
complacent  philosopher.  However  great  may  have  been  his 
natural  powers — and  none  can  deny  their  greatness — his 
penetration,  and  even  the  moral  faculty,  seem  paralyzed. 
Hence,  as  we  behold  him  groping  in  blindness,  we  cannot 
wonder  at  the  following  confession  of  the  misery  of  his 
schemes:  "The  whole  is  an  enigma — an  inexplicable  mystery. 
Doubt,  uncertainty  and  suspense  of  judgment,  appear  the  only 
result  of  our  most  accurate  scrutiny  concerning  this  subject. 
But  such  is  the  frailty  of  hiaman  reason,  and  such  the  irresist- 
ible contagion  of  opinion,  that  even  this  deliberate  doubt 
could  scarcely  be  upheld,  did  we  not  enlarge  our  views,  and 
opposing  one  species  of  superstition  to  another,  set  them  a 
quarrelling,  while  we  ourselves,  during  their  fury,  escape  into 
the  calm  and  obscure  region  of  philosophy."  * 

*  Book  of  Human  Nature. 


28G  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

Aofain:  "I  am  at  first  affrighted  and  confounded  with  that 
forlorn  solitude  in  which  I  am  placed  by  my  philosophy,  and 
fancy  myself  some  strange  uncouth  monster,  who,  not  being 
able  to  mingle  and  unite  in  society,  has  been  expelled  all 
human  commerce,  and  left  utterly  abandoned  and  disconsolate. 
Fain  would  I  run  into  the  crowd  for  shelter  and  warmth,  but 
cannot  prevail  wdth  myself  to  mix  with  such  deformity.  I 
call  upon  others  to  join  with  me  to  make  a  company  apart, 
but  no  one  will  hearken  to  me.  Every  one  keeps  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  dreads  that  storm  which  beats  on  me  from  every 
side.  I  •  have  exposed  myself  to  the  enmity  of  all  metaphy- 
sicians, logicians,  mathematicians,  and  even  theologians,  and 
can  I  wonder  at  the  insults  I  suffer?  I  have  declared  my 
disapprobation  of  their  systems,  and  can  I  be  surprised  if  they 
should  express  a  hatred  of  mine,  and  of  my  person?  When 
I  look  abroad,  I  foresee  on  every  side  dispute,  contradiction, 
anger,  calumny  and  detraction.  When  I  turn  my  eye  inward, 
I  find  nothing  but  doubt  and  ignorance.  All  the  world  con- 
spires to  oppose  and  contradict  me;  though  such  is  my 
weakness,  that  I  feel  all  my  opinions  loosen  and  fall  of 
themselves,  when  unsupported  by  the  approbation  of  others. 
Every  step  I  take  is  with  hesitation,  and  every  new  reflection 
makes  me  dread  error  and  absurdity  in  my  reasoning.  For, 
w'ith  what  confidence  can  I  ventute  on  such  bold  enterprises, 
w^hen  beside  those  numberless  infirmities  peculiar  to  myself, 
I  find  so  many  which  are  common  to  human  nature?  Can  I 
be  sure  that  in  leaving  all  established  opinions,  I  am  follow- 
ing truth?  And  by  what  criterion  shall  I  distinguish  her, 
even  if  fortune  should  at  last  guide  me  on  her  footsteps? 
After  the  most  accurate  and  exact  of  my  reasonings,  I  can 
give  no  reason  why  I  should  assent  to  it,  and  feel  nothing  but 


THE  HORRORS  OF  INFIDELITY.  287 

a  strong  propensity  to  consider  objects  strongly  in  that  view 
under  which  they  appear  to  me." 

*  *  *  "  The  intense  view  of  these  manifold  contradictions 
and  imperfections  in  human  reason  has  so  wrought  upon  and 
heated  my  brain,  that  I  am  ready  to  reject  all  belief  and 
reasoning,  and  can  look  upon  no  opinion  even  as  more 
probable  or  likely  than  another.  Where  am  I,  or  what? 
From  what  causes  do  I  derive  my  existence,  and  to  what 
condition  shall  I  return?  Whose  favor  shall  I  court,  and 
whose  anger  must  I  dread?  What  beings  surround  me? 
And  on  whom  have  I  any  influence,  or  who  have  any  influ- 
ence on  me?  I  am  confounded  with  all  these  questions,  and 
begin  to  fancy  myself  in  the  most  deplorable  condition 
imaginable,  environed  with  the  deepest  darkness,  and  utterly 
deprived  of  the  use  of  every  faculty  and  member." 

These  confessions  are  of  a  harrowing  character,  and  we  only 
cite  them  in  order  to  show  the  bewildering  effect  of  unbelief 
on  a  mind  of  great  natural  strength  and  acumen.*  Having 
madly  assailed  truth  and  endeavored  to  extinguish  that  which 

*  Charlotte  Brontd  thus  writes  of  Miss  Martineau's  "  Letters  on  the 
Nature  and  Development  of  Man." — "  Of  the  impression  this  book  has 
made  upon  me  I  will  not  now  say  much.  It  is  the  first  exposition  of 
avowed  Atheism  and  Materialism  I  have  ever  read — the  first  unequivocal 
declaration  of  disbelief  in  the  existence  of  a  God  or  a  future  life.  In 
j  udging  of  such  exposition  and  declaration  one  would  wish  entirely  to  put 
aside  the  sort  of  instinctive  horror  they  awaken,  and  to  consider  them  in 
an  impartial  spirit  and  collected  mood.  This  I  find  difficult  to  do.  The 
strangest  thing  is  that  we  are  called  on  to  rejoice  over  this  hopeless 
blank — to  receive  this  bitter  bereavement  as  great  gain — to  welcome  this 
unutterable  desolation  as  a  state  of  pleasant  freedom.  Who  could  do  this 
if  he  would  ?  Who  would  do  it  if  he  could  ?  Sincerely,  for  my  own  part, 
do  I  wish  to  know  and  find  the  truth ;  but  if  this  be  Truth,  well  may  she 
guard  herself  with  mysteries,  and  cover  herself  with  a  veil.  If  this  be 
Truth,  man  or  woman  who  beholds  her  can  but  curse  the  day  he  or  she 
was  born ! " 


288  THE  riiiLosoniER. 

is  the  light  of  the  world,  he  now  groans  while  wandering  in 
hopeless  night.  But  what  is  this  which,  amid  perplexity  and 
dismay,  comes  to  his  relief?  Poor  human  nature  revolts 
from  the  thought,  but  at  last  is  forced  by  a  false  philosophy  to 
yield  to  it  as  the  only  choice  in  a  dilemma  of  horrors.  That 
faith  which  he  labored  to  destroy  would  have  afforded  en- 
during peace,  and  delivered  him  from  the  defence  of  suicide, 
which  now  employed  his  pen.  Its  apparent  candor  conceals 
its  peculiar  artfulness,  and  we  may  look  elsewhere  in  vain  for 
equal  cunning  in  consecrating  this  fearful  crime.  It  is  said 
in  Holy  Writ  that  tlte  %oay  of  the  wicked  is  darkness,  and 
we  now  have  a  most  impressive  and  saddening  illustration  of 
its  truth.  lie  who  years  ago  turned  from  Scripture  morality 
to  tliat  of  Seneca  and  Plutarch — who  came  from  St.  Omer's 
jubilant  with  his  argument  against  miracles,  is  now  driven 
by  the  very  force  of  cumulative  error  to  plead  for  the  most 
unnatural  of  crimes.  We  may  here  note  the  same  skill  in 
sophistry  vvhich  marks  his  more  abstract  opinions,  but  which 
is  the  more  apparent  from  the  clearness  of  that  natural  view 
which  condemns  his  horrible  conclusions:  "Is  it  because 
human  life  is  of  such  great  importance  that  it  is  a  presump- 
tion for  human  prudence  to  dispose  of  it?  But  the  life  of  a 
man  is  of  no  greater  importance  to  the  universe  than  that  of 
an  oyster.  *  *  *  It  would  be  no  crime  in  me  to  divert  the  Nile 
or  the  Danube  from  its  course,  were  \  able  to  effect  such 
purpose.  Where,  then,  is  the  crime  of  turning  a  few  ounces 
of  blood  from  their  natural  channel?"  *  *  *  "In  all  cases 
Christians  and  heathens  are  precisely  on  the  same  footing; 
Cato  and  Brutus,  Arria  and  Portia,  acted  heroically,  and 
those  who  imitate  their  example  ought  to  receive  the  praises 
of  posterity." 

This  extract  from  the  "Essay  on  Suicide"  proves  the  i:)ower 


TESTIMONY  OF  DR.  GORDON.  289 

of  long-cherished  falsehood.  The  lie  which  had  possessed 
his  entire  existence  now  develops  the  boast  of  self-destruc- 
tion; and  in  his  blindness  the  reasoner  perceives  not  that  his 
words  are  an  equal  defence  for  the  murder  of  others  as  for 
that  of  one's  self.  The  late  Dr.  Gordon  of  Hull — a  philan- 
thropic physician,  whose  benign  labors  entitled  him  to  the 
name  of  "the  people's  friend" — just  before  his  death  referred 
to  the  Materialism  which  in  his  early  day  he  had  met  in  the 
pages  of  Hume.  "I  have,"  said  he,  "studied  the  subject 
deeply;  indeed,  I  have  read  all  the  celebrated  writings  of 
Deists  and  Atheists,  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  beguiled 
by  their  sophistry.  All  things  are  incomprehensible,  and  yet 
we  presume  to  reason  about  religion.  We  know  not  what 
an  infinitessimal  atom  of  matter  is.  We  can  conceive  of  its 
infinite  division,  and  yet  every  particle  must  have  an  upper 
and  an  under  side.  *  *  *  We  know  not  the  end  of  space, 
nor  the  end  of  time.  We  know  nothing.  We  see  with  a 
very  contracted  view,  and  yet  we  reason!*     We  must  come 

*  The  word  reason  was  used  by  the  dying  man  in  the  sense  taken  by 
the  Infidel,  as  opposed  to  faith  ;  he  had  learned,  as  do  all  Christians,  that 
there  is  no  antagonism  between  Christianity  and  enlightened  reason,  or  in 
other  words,  that  there  is  nothing  more  reasonable  than  the  former.  The 
following  dialogue  will  show  what  he  understood  by  the  term,  reason : 

Dr.  G. — "  Did  you  ever  see  a  locomotive  engine  ?  "     M. — "  Yes ! " 

G.— "  Do  you  think  it  moves  ?  "     M.— "  Yes  ! " 

G. — "  I  can  prove  that  it  does  not,  and  I  defy  you  to  disprove  my  ar- 
gument. " 

M. — "  But  something  moves." 

G. — "It  is  a  delusion — it  is  not  a  reality.  May  you  not  be  deceived? 
A  body  only  occupies  a  space  equal  to  itself." 

M.— "  Well ! " 

G. — "  It  cannot  hold  two  spaces  at  one  and  the  same  time.  A  body 
cannot  move  where  it  is,  and  it  cannot  move  where  it  is  not — therefore  it 
does  not  move  at  all." 

13 


290  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

to  the  Bible  as  little  children,  and  then  we  shall  know,"  It 
was,  no  doubt,  a  relief  from  such  cheerless  speculations,  when 
Hume  obtained  a  secretaryship  from  Lord  St.  Clair,  and  ex- 
changing his  metaphysics  for  the  duties  of  the  attache,  he 
accompanied  the  embassy  to  Vienna  and  Turin. 

In  1T51  he  retired  from  the  embassy  with  a  competence, 
and  signalized  his  return  to  Edinburgh  by  a  new  and  enlarged 
edition  of  his  "Treatise  on  Human  Nature."  The  next  year 
he  issued  his  "Political  Discourses,"  and  became  keeper  of 
the  Advocates'  Library.  This  appointment  made  him  the 
historian.  Surrounded  by  ancient  records,  and  with  the 
treasured  archives  of  his  nation  opened  before  him,  his  indus- 
try and  ambition  produced  in  two  years  the  history  of  the 
house  of  Stuart.  It  was  one  into  which  entered  elements  of 
striking  contrast,  and  one  whose  thrilling  episodes  could  have 
illustrated  that  high-toned  piety  and  love  oi  freedom  which  are 
the  noblest  traits  of  Scottish  character.  The  faithful  perfor- 
mance of  the  task  thus  assumed  required  a  high  consideration 
of  motive,  since  conscience  was  so  often  paramount  to  self- 
interest  as  to  consecrate  the  land  with  sacrifice.  Yet  it  was 
attempted  by  one  whose  hostility  to  Scottish  piety  was 
undisguised,  and  who  could  neither  appreciate  nor  understand 
the  characters  which  he  chronicled.  Such,  indeed,  was  his 
enmity  toward  Christianity,  that  it  exposes  his  I'ccord  to 
doubt,  while  some  impugn  even  its  honesty. 

"He  was  induced,"  says  an  able  reviewer — "like  Voltaire, 
to  adopt  history  as  the  more  effective  vehicle  for  his  opinions, 
and  he  fully  succeeded.  Infidelity  for  the  million  is  the 
heading  for  Hume's  History,  than  which  only  one  other  (and 
it  is  not  needful  to  name  Gibbon,)  has  exerted  a  more  bane- 
ful influence  on  English  literature,  and  through  English  literu- 


BURKING  CHRISTIANITY.  291 

ture  on  the  civilized  world.  Antipathy  to  faith  had  become 
engrafted  upon  his  moral  constitution.  Like  Gibbon,  he 
was  possessed  with  malignant  hatred  against  all  goodness 
and  holiness.  'Never  lose  an  opportunity,'  was  the  advice 
given  by  a  kindred  spirit,  '  of  placing  gunpowder  under  the 
gigantic  edifice  of  superstition,  until  the  mine  shall  be  charged 
with  a  sufficient  quantity  to  blow  up  the  whole.'  Hume  did 
not  dare  to  fire  the  train.  He  would  have  dreaded  the  smoke 
and  noise  of  an  explosion.  Adopting  the  coarse  but  forcible 
expression  suggested  by  a  crime  unknown  in  the  dark  ages — 
he  always  tried  to  Burke  religion."*  That  such  was  his 
secret  design,  may  be  inferred  from  the  language  of  his  dying 
hours,  when  he  seemed  to  derive  solace  from  the  hope  that 
his  opinions  would  yet  triumph.  One  cannot  but  recoil  from 
the  ghastly  witticisms  with  whose  points  he  strove  to  resist 
the  approach  of  death,  and  we  read  with  a  shudder  his  catch- 
ing at  mythological  fables,  and  exclaiming:  "Have  a  little 
patience,  good  Charon — I  have  been  endeavoring  to  open 
the  eyes  of  the  public.  If  I  live  a  few  years  longer,  I  may 
have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  downfall  of  some  of  the 
prevailing  systems  of  superstition."  "  To  open  the  eyes  of 
the  public"  is  here  given  as  the  conceited  expression  of  one 
who  led  many  a  disciple  into  the  dreary  caverns  of  unbelief; 
and  whose  ambition  it  was,  either  in  ethics  or  in  lii-story,  to 
sap  faith  and  prejudice  the  mind.  As  the  readers  of  the 
Litter  exceed  those  of  the  former,  it  was  a  wider  field  of 
operations,  and  well  has  it  been  wrought.  When  the  influ- 
ences or  benefits  of  piety  cannot  be  concealed,  they  are,  if 
possible,  degraded.     In   his   hands   religion  becomes   either 

*  I-ondon  Quarterly. 


292  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

superstition  or  fanaticism.  The  former  is  the  term  api>lied 
to  Romanism — the  latter  is  used  to  designate  Protestantism, 
especially  its  Calvinistic  type,  which  he  hated  most  of  all — 
and  thus  piety,  whose  power  had  been  exhibited  but  a  few 
years  previously  in  the  martyrs  of  his  native  land,  is  at  once 
cast  away  in  contempt.  Macaulay,  among  his  early  efforts, 
placed  his  brand  upon  this  perversion  of  the  historic  pen.* 
"Hume,"  he  exclaims,  "without  positively  assex'ting  much 
more  than  he  can  prove,  gives  prominence  to  all  the  circum- 
stances which  support  his  case.  He  glides  lightly  over  those 
which  are  unfavorable  to  it.  His  own  witnesses  are  applaud- 
ed and  encouraged.  The  statements  which  seem  to  throw 
discredit  on  them  are  controverted;  the  contradictions  into 
which  they  fall  are  explained  away;  a  clear  and  connected 
abstract  of  their  evidence  is  given.  Everything  that  is 
offered  on  the  other  side  is  scrutinized  with  the  utmost  sin- 
cerity; every  suspicious  circumstance  is  a  ground  for  com- 
ment and  invective;  what  cannot  be  denied  is  extenuated, 
or  passed  by  without  notice.  Concessions  are  even  some- 
times made;  but  this  insidious  candor  only  increases  the 
effect  of  the  vast  mass  of  sophistry." 

To  this  searching  extract  may  be  added  the  testimony  of  a 
distinguished  professor  of  modern  history :  "  I  do  not  conceive 
a  lecturer  on  history  could  render  a  more  important  service 
than  by  following  Mr.  Hume  step  by  step  through  the  whole 
of  his  accounts,  and  showing  what  were  his  fair  and  what  were 
his  unfair  inferences;  what  his  just  representations,  and  what 
his  improper^  colorings;  what  his  mistakes,  and  above  all, 
what  his  omissions;  in  short,  what  were  the  dangers  and 

*  Essay  on  History. 


THE  TRUE  END  OF  HISTORY.  293 

what  the  advantages  which  must  attend  the  perusal  of 
so  popular  and  able  a  performance.  *  *  *  But  it  is  Hume 
who  is  read  by  every  one.  Hume  is  the  historian  whose 
views  and  opinions  insensibly  become  our  own.  He  is  re- 
spected and  admired  by  the  most  enlightened  reader;  he  is 
the  guide  and  philosopher  of  the  ordinary  reader,  to  whose 
mind  on  all  the  topics  connected  with  our  history,  he  gives 
the  tone  and  the  law.  *  *  *  But  what  reader  turns  to  consult 
his  references,  or  examine  his  original  authority?  And  what 
effect  does  this  distrust  produce?  Practically  none."*  It 
may  have  been  such  a  view  of  the  errors  to  which  national 
chronicles  are  subject,  that  led  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole's 
famous  reply  to  a  young  relative  who  would  have  entertained 
his  hours  of  illness  with  an  historical  volume :  "  Do  not  read 
history  to  me,"  said  the  invalid  statesman,  "for  that  I  know 
to  be  false." 

We  have  made  these  extracts,  in  order  to  afford  a  correct 
view  ot  England's  chief  historian.  But  how  could  the 
great  Materialist  fulfil  so  high  a  mission?  The  great  end 
of  history  is  the  glory  of  God,  as  accomplished  in  ruling 
mankind;  and  the  great  fact  of  history  is  God's  dealing 
with  man  by  human  instrumentality.  The  philosophy  of 
history  is  the  blessing  arising  from  national  piety,  and  the 
punishment  arising  from  national  crimes.  And  seldom  in 
history  has  the  hand  of  God  been  more  clearly  revealed 
than  in  that  of  the  house  of  Stuart.  But  while  the  Al- 
mighty has  written  his  very  name  upon  its  awful  cartoons, 
we  behold  the  Deist  either  expunging  the  Great  Author's 
title,  or  reviling  his  handiwork.     That  history  which  God 

*  Smyth's  Lectures  on  History,  vol.  i.  p.  126,  Cambridge  Edition. 


294  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

himself  inspired,  exhibits  its  author  creating,  instructing, 
and  finally,  rewarding  and  punishing  man;  but  Hume  is 
careful  not  only  to  shut  out  God  from  all  action,  but  to 
dishonor  his  name  and  his  followers.  The  world,  with  him, 
was  an  abode  of  Atheists — a  world  of  chance — plunging  down 
the  future,  like  a  ship  without  compass  or  chart,  or  even 
an  expected  haven. 

Having  achieved  fame  by  his  history,  Hume  in  1763 
accepted  Lord  Hertford's  invitation  to  accompany  him  to 
France,  where  he  was  made  Secretary  to  the  Embassy,  and 
afterward  elevated  to  the  important  office  of  "  Charge 
d^ Affaires.''''  His  visit  to  the  Continent  was  one  of  the  most 
interesting  episodes  in  the  quiet  life  of  the  philosophic 
historian.  Twenty  years  had  elapsed  since  his  first  visit  to 
the  land  which  encouraged  his  early  Atheistical  speculations, 
and  which  furnished  his  famous  Argument  against  Miracles. 
He  returns  to  that  land  a  veteran  in  the  service  of  error — the 
intervening  twenty  years  had  been  given  to  intellectual  effort, 
but  it  had  brought  no  light  to  his  mind,  and  his  steps  had 
but  retreated  farther  and  farther  into  what  he  so  fitly  terms, 
"  the  obscure  regions  of  philosophy."  France  had  also  suffered 
the  same  retrograde.  Twenty  years  had  witnessed  a  momen- 
tous change.  The  nation  had  developed  vast  reaches  in  Infi- 
delity, and  the  formal  respect  which  the  Church  had  once 
feebly  exacted  was  now  changed  for  an  almost  open  con- 
temj)t. 

Hume's  abode  in  Paris  was  a  series  of  delightful  receptions, 
and  the  duties  of  his  office  were  intermingled  with  flatteries 
and  caresses.  The  capital  appeared  in  holiday  colors;  the 
nation  boasted  its  prosperity,  and  its  higher  classes  pressed 
in  mad  rivalry  the  pursuit  of  pleasure.     The  gaiety  of  Paris 


HUME  REVISITS  FRANCE.  295 

was  excited  to  its  highest  degree  by  that  ill-boding  levity 
which   follows   the   destruction  of  the  religious    sentiment. 
Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  and  other  assailants  of  Christianity, 
had  accomplished  a  vast  change  in  public  opinion,  and  while 
their  pages  were  being  admired  and  discussed  in  salons  and 
cafes,  Paris  receives  their  famed  ally  from  the  north.     Scot- 
land and  her  destiny  had  long  been  a  leading  theme  in  the 
French  metropolis,  and  the  latter  had  heard  of  her  stern  and 
unconquerable  adherence  to  Protestantism,  while  her  rejection 
of  the  house  and  faith  of  Stuart  at  Culloden  was  fresh  in  the 
public  mind.     But  now  Scotland  sends  no  outcast  prince,  or 
banished  Highlander,  but  a  gifted  and  defiant  philosopher. 
With  the  united  prestige  of  high  office,  and  still  higher  author- 
ship, Hume  was  lionized  by  the  social  and  gesthetic  classes. 
The  ladies  assailed  him  with  correspondence,  and  the  gentry 
lavished  on  him  their  invitations.     He  was  feted — toasted — 
applauded.     "  Do  you  ask  me,"  he  says  in  a  letter,  "  about 
my  course  of  life?     I  can  only  say  that  I  eat  nothing  but 
ambrosia — drink  nothing   but  nectar — breathe  nothing  but 
incense — tread  on  nothing  but  flowers.     Every  man  I  meet, 
and  still  more  every  lady,  would  think  they  were  wanting  in 
the  most  indispensable  duty,  did  they  not  make  a  long  and 
elaborate  harangue  in  my  praise." 

Again:  "I  have  been  three  days  at  Paris,  and  two  at  Fon- 
tainebleau,  and  have  everywhere  met  the  most  extraordi- 
nary honors  which  the  most  exorbitant  vanity  could  wish 
for  or  desire.  The  compliments  of  Dukes,  Mareschals  of 
France,  and  foreign  ambassadors,  go  for  nothing  with  me  at 
present.  I  retain  a  relish  for  no  kind  of  flattery,  but  that 
which  comes  from  the  ladies."  The  ladies  of  whom  he  speaks 
in  such  raptures,  were  of  the  highest  rank  in  social  order, 


296  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

but  the  lowest  in  that  of  virtue;  and  under  patronage  such  as 
that  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  and  the  Duchess  de  Choiseul, 
the  noblesse  of  Prance  was  only  comparable  to  the  bestial 
rout  of  Comus.  The  philosopher  need  not  be  surprised  if 
minor  morals  were  ignored — he  had  himself  affirmed  that 
virtue  was  only'  valuable,  so  far  as  it  might  be  useful.  In 
Paris  its  usefulness  had  ceased,  and  it  had  been  quietly 
banished.  But  beneath  this  gay  exterior  was  hidden  social 
corruption  and  unutterable  rottenness.  The  very  foundation 
of  national  character  had  been  already  sapped  by  the  loss  of 
its  morals.  The  luxurious  splendor  of  the  higher  classes — 
the  triumph  of  reason — the  philosophic  serenity  of  Infidel 
savants — and  all  the  varied  aspects  of  prosperity,  were  like 
the  hectic  flush,  a  mark  not  of  health  but  of  death.  Indeed, 
what  Gibbon  in  his  Autobiography  so  flippantly  says  of 
Naples,  a  city  "whose  luxurious  inhabitants  seem  to  dwell 
on  the  confines  of  paradise  and  hell-fire,"  was  at  that  time 
far  more  applicable  to  the  ill-fated  capital  of  France.  Ah, 
when  was  there  a  volcano  so  fully  charged,  or  so  quiescent  in 
its  delay  as  this  which  awaits  its  hour  of  waking?  To-day 
the  green  slopes  bask  in  sunshine,  and  many  a  well-laden 
vineyard  gives  promise  of  future  joy,  while  at  the  moun- 
tain's base  the  city  sits  crowned  by  the  honors  of  literature 
and  art.  AVho  shall  suspect  such  fuir  scenes  of  promise? 
Yet  but  a  day  is  past  when  the  mountain,  no  longer  lapped 
in  serene  beauty,  shakes  in  anger  to  its  very  foundation, 
and  those  joyous  slopes  are  ablaze  with  rivers  of  hissing 
lava,  while  the  queenly  city  recoils  in  the  convulsions  of 
earthquake.  Alaslis/here  no  one  to  read  the  signs  of  the 
times?  Paris  now  is  radiant  with  a  dreamy  and  evanescent 
bliss.    Yet  some  of  these  very  circles,  now  so  gay,  shall  have 


K 
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H 


FRANCE  PREPARING  FOR  REVOLUTION.     297 

another  reunion  in  the  grim  chamber  of  the  Tribunal,  and  their 
blood  shall  mingle  in  the  gurgling  stream  fed  by  the  axe. 
Maximilian  Robespierre,  and  the  relentless  Fouquer  Tinville 
are  children  now,  but  childish  sports  must  soon  give  way  to 
the  scenes  of  their  advancing  destiny.  Louis  is  a  spoiled  boy 
in  the  palace  of  his  ancient  line,  while  far  away  the  daughter 
of  Maria  Theresa,  a  princess  lovely  and  serene,  graces  the 
courtly  halls  of  the  Hapsburgs.  But  those  happy  hours  of 
childhood  shall  soon  be  past,  and  bidding  farewell  to  the 
palace  which  once  echoed  with  the  glorious  shout  "moriamur 
pro  rege  nostra,''  she  shall  commence  that  career  of  sorrow 
which  has  consecrated  the  name  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

Hume's  sojourn  at  Paris  initiated  that  unfortunate  intimacy 
with  Rousseau  which  is  the  only  exciting  episode  in  his  life, 
and  which,  however  painful  or  grotesque,  redeems  it  from 
utter  tameness.  Their  union  was  that  of  extremes;  the 
Scotchman  was  fat,  cold  and  judicious,  while  the  Swiss  was 
meagre,  nervous,  impulsive,  and  variable  as  the  wind.  He 
had  abandoned  his  residence  in  Neufchatel  for  one  in  Berne, 
whence  he  had  been  expelled  by  order  of  the  council,  and  the 
wanderer  found  refuge  in  Paris.  Here  he  was  received  with 
marked  distinction,  and  Paris  entertained  at  the  same  time 
the  founders  of  two  great  schools  of  Infidelity — the  passionate 
and  the  utilitarian. 

Rousseau  was  then,  as  he  has  been  ever  since,  a  paradox — 
a  commingling  of  genius,  misery,  and  crime.  Among  his 
gifts  he  claimed  to  enjoy  divine  communication,  and  had  he 
Fived  in  the  present  day  might  have  flourished  as  a  medium 
in  the  later  heresy  of  spiritualism,  and  added  this  distinction  to 
that  of  authorship.  Hume  was  rich  and  influential — Rousseau 
was  homeless  and  poor,  save  in  alternate  raptures  and  tears, 


298  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

and  in  ecstacies  of  confidence  and  gratitude.  Hume  kindly 
brought  the  exile  to  England,  and  undertook  his  gratuitous 
support.  It  was  a  sad  day  in  the  life  of  the  philosopher,  and 
the  controversy  which  ensued  M^as  so  vexatious  that  all  allu- 
sion to  it  is  omitted  in  his  autobiography.  Rousseau  proved 
utterly  unmanageable;  his  moods  varied  momently.  From 
joy  to  grief — from  confidence  to  suspicion — from  friendsliip 
to  hatred — from  peace  to  frenzy,  was  the  transition  of  an 
instant.  No  abode  could  satisfy  him — no  arrangement  could 
afford  content.  One  cottage  after  another  was  put  to  the 
trial,  but  all  proved  in  vain,  and  like  the  old  man  of  Oriental 
fiction,  he  hung  upon  his  host,  a  hopeless  incumbrance. 

Hume  denied  the  doctrine  of  a  Divine  Providence,  but  it 
seems  to  us  that  in  this  affair  the  wise  dealing  of  a  Providence 
is  manifest.  It  was  an  unanswerable  argument,  brought  home 
by  bitter  experience.  Indeed,  the  whole  affair  appears  but  the 
natural  fruit  of  that  dismal  unbelief  of  which  each  made  his 
boast. 

The  unrest  which  vexed  Rousseau  was  of  a  nature  common 
to  the  unbelieving  world.  It  arose  from  the  disquietude  of  a 
soul  banished  from  its  God.  He  only  shared  the  wretched- 
ness of  all  who  reject  Christianity,  though  it  was  aggravated 
by  the  morbid  sensitiveness  of  his  nervous  system.  Although 
his  mind  was  thoroughly  diseased,  and  had  become,  as  Byron 
says,  "Suspicion's  sanctuary,"  there  was  a  balm  in  the 
despised  Gospel  which,  as  in  the  case  of  poor  Cowper,  could 
have  brought  health  and  cure.  The  same  cheering  influences 
which  occasionally  broke  the  horrid  gloom  of  the  hypochon- 
driac of  Olney  could  have  gladdened  the  miserable  Swiss. 
Yet  when  we  consider  how  earnestly  Hume  labored  to  de- 
prive  mankind   of  the  Gospel,  Ave  cannot  wonder  that  he 


INFIDELITY  AND  FRIENDSHIP.  299 

should  receive  a  lesson  through  one  who,  like  him,  gloried  in 
its  loss.  Here  was  a  valuable  train  of  reasoning  opened  be- 
fore him.  If  he  found  his  scoffing  guest  to  be  malignant, 
treacherous,  and  ungrateful,  it  was  at  least  certain  that  these 
were  not  to  be  imputed  to  "superstition,"  or  "fanaticism," 
or  "bigotry;"  and  thus,  after  pursuing  Christianity  with  unre- 
lenting bitterness  during  the  best  years  of  his  life,  he  finds  his 
worst  enemy  not  in  her  ranks,  but  in  those  of  his  miserable 
allies.* 

Infidelity,  at  best,  is  not  favorable  to  strong  friendship,  and 
in  this  case  the  literary  circles  of  three  nations  were  amused 
by  the  wrangling  of  a  brace  of  anti-Christian  philosophers. 

*  "  We  hold  it  a  most  valid  testimony  when  those  very  men  who  under- 
take to  tutor  the  species  in  virtue,  apart  from  Godliness,  are  rendered 
heartless  by  disappointment,  and  take  revenge  on  their  disciples  by  pour- 
ing forth  the  effusions  of  bitterest  misanthropy  against  them.  Rousseau 
was  one  of  those  to  whom  we  allude.  He  may  be  regarded  as  having  in 
effect  abjured  Christianity  and  betaken  himself  to  the  enterprise  of  human- 
izing the  world,  on  other  principles ;  and  from  the  bower  of  romance  and 
sensibility  did  he  send  forth  the  lessons  that  were  to  recall  our  wandering 
race  to  the  primitive  innocence  from  which  art,  and  science,  and  society 
had  seduced  it.  And  year  after  year  did  he  ply  all  Europe  with  the  spells 
of  a  most  magical  and  captivating  eloquence.  Nor  were  there  wanting 
many  admirers,  who  worshipped  him  while  he  lived,  and  who,  when  he 
died,  went  like  devotees  on  a  pilgrimage  to  his  tomb.  But  the  ill-fated 
Rousseau  lived  long  enough  to  mourn  over  the  vanity  of  his  own  beau- 
teous speculations,  and  was  heard  to  curse  the  very  Nature  he  had  so 
long  idolized ;  and  instead  of  humanity  capable  of  being  raised  to  the 
elevation  of  a  Godlike  virtue,  did  he  himself  pronounce  of  humanity  that 
it  was  deeply  tainted  with  some  sore  and  irrecoverable  disease.  And  it 
is  indeed  a  striking  attestation  from  him  of  the  depravity  of  our  race 
that,  ere  he  ended  his  career,  he  became  sick  of  that  very  world  which  he 
had  vainly  tried  to  regenerate — renouncing  all  brotherhood  with  his  own 
species,  and  loudly  proclaiming  to  all  his  fellows  how  much  he  hated,  and 
execrated,  and  abjured  them." — Chalmers. 


300  THE  PHILOSOrilER. 

Hume's  ill-judgment  was  shown  by  the  explanation  which  he 
published,  in  order  to  correct  the  mis-statements  of  his  enemy. 
The  affair  had  already  been  ventilated  in  the  public  journals, 
but  now  it  took  the  more  dignified  aspect  of  a  war  of  pam- 
phlets. That  the  public  might  lose  nothing  of  so  interesting 
a  controversy,  the  London  caricaturists  afforded  humorous 
illustrations,  and  the  unfortunate  pair  were  thus  exhibited  at 
shop-windows  and  in  coffee-rooms.  After  spending  a  year  in 
England,  Rousseau  returned  to  the  Continent  in  disgust,  and 
his  unfortunate  host,  after  a  long  season,  during  which  study 
was  exchanged  for  literary  martyrdom,  was  enabled  to  retreat 
into  what  he  calls  "the  calm  and  obscure  regions  of  philo- 
sophy." 

Hume's  latter  days  were  spent  in  Edinburgh.  He  died  in 
1776,  bequeathing  to  his  admirers  a  better  character  than 
prevails  generally  in  their  ranks.  His  calm  and  massive 
intellect  seemed  to  shrink  from  vice,  while  as  a  philosopher 
he  cherished  the  virtues.  Though  unchanged  in  his  convic- 
tions, he  still  sometimes  attended  church.  He  not  only 
admired  Whitcfield,  but  it  is  even  said  that  he  rebuked  the 
housemaid  for  neglecting  worship;  and  at  last  he  closed  his 
career — dying,  as  Dr.  Black  states,  like  a  philosopher. 

We  gladly  concede  all  these  negative  features,  for  they  are 
all  that  can  be  urged  in  favor  of  one  whose  doctrines  have 
wrought  the  ruin  of  multitudes — all  that  can  be  offered  in 
extenuation  for  the  poisoned  pages  of  his  ]\Iaterialism,  or  his 
Apology  for  Suicide.  While  reading  his  works  we  seem  to 
approach  the  giant  who  wielded  the  pen  as  fatally  as  others 
have  wielded  the  sword.  He  looms  up  before  us  in  all  the 
greatness  of  intellect,  and  yet  the  statued  form,  like  one 
cursed  ages  ago,  reminds  us  of  a  pillar  of  salt.     Insulated  by 


SCOTLAND  EESTORED  TO  YIGOR.  30X 

i 

his  own  confessions  of  misery,  he  remains  still  in  that  desert 

into  which  he  forced  his  way ;  and  yet  not  altogether  alone. 

for  there  his  baleful  shadow  falls  on  those  disciples  who  have 

followed  him  to  his  drear  abode. 

We  have  referred  to  that  long  and  cheerless  night  which 

once  enveloped  Scotland  in  shadow.     After  nearly  a  century, 

morning  broke  upon  the  nation.      The   awakening  in  her 

church,  which  may  date  from  the  death  of  the  brilliant  and 

lamented  Urquhart,  has  inspired  not  only  her  pulpit  but  all 

departments  of  science  and  education  with  newness  of  life. 

That  piety  which  Hume  aspersed  has  exalted  his  country  to 

an   elevation  of  which  he  could  not  have  dreamed.      The 

Gospel  which  he  sought  to  destroy  has  given  it  a  Chalmers, 

an  Alexander  Duff,  and  a  Hugh  Miller — and  above  all,  its 

Free  Church,  the  most  illustrious  of  its  honors.     And  in  that 

very  city,  where  an  hundred  years  ago  he  drivelled  to  Charon 

(^  the  "  superstition  "  whose  downfall  he  might  soon  witness, 

Christianity  stands  stronger  and  purer  than  ever  before;  and 

youth  can  be  found  in  almost  every  hamlet  in  the  land  who 

can  refute  the  Argument  against  Miracles,  and  rip  up  the 

meshes  of  its  sophistry. 

********** 

The  final  triumph  of  Christianity  over  all  forms  of  error 
and  unbelief  is  illustrated  by  the  devices  which  mark  the 
tomb  which  contains  the  remains  of  Scotland's  Infidel  philo- 
sopher. As  the  tourist  wanders  through  the  Calton  Hill 
graveyard,  in  Edinburgh,  he  will  note  among  the  mouldering 
monuments  of  ancient  chieftains,  and  those  still  more  sacred, 
which  honor  the  names  of  martyrs,  a  small  circular  tower, 
surmounted  by  the  cross.  This  tower  marks  the  family  tomb 
of  the  Humes,  and  beneath  it  the  remains  of  the  philosopher 


302 


THE  PHILOSOPHER. 


rest  by  the  side  of  those  of  his  kindred,  while  over  him,  as 
though  in  solemn  triumph,  is  reared  the  great  symbol  of  that 
faith  on  which  he  made  war.  Here  we  recognize  the  hand 
of  that  Divine  Providence  which  he  denied  and  ridiculed, 
and  which  thus  compels  the  very  dust  of  the  unbeliever  to 
witness  for  Christ. 

To  increase  the  impressive  lesson  thus  taught,  we  read  upon 
the  same  tower  the  following  touching  and  beautiful  scripture : 
"  Thanhs  be  to  God,  tvho  giveth  tis  the  victory,  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.''''  How  complete  the  antithesis  between 
the  Infidel  and  the  legend  and  symbol  which  mark  his  tomb ! 
The  latter  are  no  doubt  to  be  ascribed  to  the  piety  of  some 
of  the  later  members  of  his  family,  who  thus  openly  repudi- 
ate the  errors  of  their  great  but  blinded  kinsman.  It  is  a 
scene  which  revives  the  words  of  Scripture,  and  they  seem 
here  to  be  spoken  to  the  very  heart: 


"This  is  the  stone  which  was  set  at  nought  of  you 

BUILDERS,    which    IS    BECOME    THE    HEAD    OF    THE    CORNER." 


f^^ 


THE    INFIDEL'S    DEATH-BED 


The  Author  adds,  as  an  Appendix,  the  following  Sketches, 

EXTRACTED   FROM   THE   WORKS   OF   TUE   LATE   ReV.   Dr.  JoHN    M.  MaSON,   OF 

New  York. 


THE    INFIDEL'S    DEATH-BED. 


Letter  from  Adam  Smith,  L.L.D.,  to  William  Strahan,  Esq., 
giving  some  account  of  Mr.  Hume,  during  his  last  sickness. 

KiRKALDT,  Fife  Shire,  Nov.  9,  1'7'76. 

Dear  Sir, — It  is  with  a  real,  though  a  very  melancholy 
pleasure,  that  I  sit  down  to  give  you  some  account  of  the 
behaviour  of  our  late  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Hume,  during  his 
last  illness.  Though,  in  his  own  judginent,  his  disease  was 
mortal  and  incurable,  yet  he  allowed  himself  to  be  prevailed 
upon,  by  the  entreaty  of  his  friends,  to  try  what  might  be 
the  effects  of  a  long  journey.  A  few  days  before  he  set  out, 
he  wrote  that  account  of  his  own  life,  which  together  with  his 
other  papers,  he  left  to  your  care.  My  account,  therefore, 
shall  begin  where  his  ends. 

He  set  out  for  London  towards  the  end  of  April,  and  at 
Morpeth  met  with  Mr.  John  Home  and  myself,  who  had 
both  come  down  from  London  on  purpose  to  see  him,  expect- 
ing to  have  found  him  at  Edinburgh.  Mr.  Home  returned 
with  him,  and  attended  him  during  the  whole  of  his  stay  in 


306  THE  DEATH-BED. 

England,  with  thiit  care  and  attention  which  might  be  ex- 
pected from  a  temper  so  perfectly  friendly  and  affectionate. 
As  I  had  written  to  my  mother  that  she  might  expect  me  in 
Scotland,  I  was  under  the  necessity  of  continuing  my  journey. 
His  disease  seemed  to  yield  to  exercise  and  change  of  air; 
and  when  he  arrived  in  London,  he  was  apparently  in  much 
better  health  than  when  he  left  Edinburgh.  He  was  advised 
to  go  to  Bath  to  drink  the  waters,  which  appeared  for  some 
time  to  have  so  good  an  effect  upon  him,  that  even  he  himself 
began  to  entertain,  what  he  was  not  apt  to  do,  a  better 
opinion  of  his  own  health.  His  symptoms,  however,  soon 
returned  with  their  usual  violence;  and  from  that  moment 
he  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  recovery,  but  submitted  with  the 
utmost  cheerfulness,  and  the  most  perfect  complacency  and 
resignation.  Upon  his  return  to  Edinburgh,  though  he  found 
himself  much  weaker,  yet  his  cheerfulness  never  abated,  and 
he  continued  to  divert  himself,  as  usual,  with  correcting  his 
own  works  for  a  new  edition,  with  reading  books  of  amuse- 
ment, with  the  conversation  of  his  friends;  and,  sometimes  in 
the  evening,  with  a  party  at  his  favorite  game  ot  whist.  His 
cheerfulness  was  so  great,  and  his  conversation  and  amuse- 
ments run  so  much  in  their  usual  strain,  that,  notwithstanding 
all  bad  symptoms,  many  people  could  not  believe  he  was 
dying.  "I  shall  tell  your  friend,  Colonel  Edmondstone,"  said 
Doctor  Duudas  to  liim  one  day,  "that  I  left  you  much  better, 
and  in  a  fair  way  of  recovery."  "Doctor,"  said  he,  "as  I  be- 
lieve you  would  not  choose  to  tell  anything  but  the  truth, 
you  had  better  tell  him  that  I  am  dying  as  fast  as  my 
enemies,  if  I  have  any,  could  wish,  and  as  easily  and  cheerfully 

as  my  best  friends  could  desire." 

Colonel  Edmondstone  soon  after  came  to  see  him,  and  take 


THE  DEATH-BED.  307 

leave  of  him;  and  on  his  way  home,  he  could  not  forbear 
writing  him  a  letter,  bidding  him  once  more  an  eternal  adieu, 
and  applying  to  him,  as  to  a  dying  man,  the  beautiful  French 
verses,  in  which  the  Abbe  Chaulieu,  in  expectation  of  his  own 
death,  laments  his  approaching  separation  from  his  friend,  the 
Marquis  De  La  Fare. 

Mr.  Hume's  magnanimity  and  firmness  were  such,  that  his 
most  affectionate  friends  knew  that  they  hazarded  nothing  in 
talking  or  writing  to  him  as  to  a  dying  man,  and  that  so  far 
from  being  hurt  by  this  frankness,  he  was  rather  pleased  and 
flattered  by  it.  I  happened  to  come  into  his  room  while  he 
was  reading  this  letter,  which  he  had  just  received,  and  which 
he  immediately  showed  me.  I  told  him,  that  though  I  was 
sensible  how  very  much  he  was  weakened,  and  that  appear- 
ances were  in  many  respects  very  bad,  yet  his  cheerfulness  was 
still  so  great,  the  spirit  of  life  seemed  to  be  still  so  very  strong 
in  him,  that  I  could  not  help  entertaining  some  faint  hopes. 
He  answered,  "Your  hopes  are  groundless.  An  habitual 
diarrhoea  of  more  than  a  year's  standing,  would  be  a  very  bad 
disease  at  any  age:  at  my  age  it  is  a  mortal  one.  When  I 
lie  down  in  the  evening,  I  feel  myself  weaker  than  when  I 
rose  in  the  morning;  and  when  I  rise  in  the  morning,  I  feel 
myself  weaker  than  when  I  lay  down  in  the  evening.  I  am 
sensible,  besides,  that  some  of  my  vital  parts  are  affected,  so 
that  I  must  soon  die."  "Well,"  said  I,  "if  it  must  be  so, 
you  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  leaving  all  your  friends, 
your  brother's  family  in  particular,  in  great  prosperity." 
He  said  that  he  felt  that  satisfaction  so  sensibly,  that  when 
he  was  reading,  a  few  days  before,  Lucian's  Dialogues  of  the 
Dead,  among  all  the  excuses  which  are  alleged  to  Charon,  for 
not  entering  readilv  into  his  boat,  he  could  not  find  one  that 


308  THE  DEATH-BED. 

fitted  him;  he  had  no  house  to  finish,  he  had  no  daughter  to 
provide  fi)r,  he  had  no  enemies  upon  whom  he  wished  to 
revenge  himself.  "I  could  not  well  imagine,"  said  he,  "what 
excuse  I  could  make  to  Charon,  in  order  to  obtain  a  little 
delay.  I  have  done  everything  of  consequence  which  I  ever 
meant  to  do ;  and  I  could  at  no  time  expect  to  leave  my  re- 
lations and  friends  in  a  better  situation  than  that  in  which  I 
am  now  likely  to  leave  them ;  I,  therefore,  have  all  reason  to 
die  contented."  He  then  diverted  himself  with  inventing 
several  jocular  excuses  which  he  supposed  he  might  make  to 
Charon,  and  with  imagining  the  very  surly  answers  which  it 
might  suit  the  character  of  Charon  to  return  to  them.  "  Upon 
further  consideration,"  said  he,  "I  thought  I  might  say  to  him, 
'  Good  Charon,  I  have  been  correcting  my  works  for  a  new 
edition.  Allow  me  a  little  time  that  I  may  see  how  the  pub- 
lic receives  the  alterations.'  But  Charon  would  answer, 
'When  you  have  seen  the  efteet  of  these,  you  will  be  for 
making  other  alterations.  There  will  be  no  end  of  such  ex- 
cuses; so,  honest  fi'iend,  please  step  into  the  boat.'  But  I 
might  still  urge,  '  Have  a  little  patience,  good  Charon ;  I  have 
been  endeavoring  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  public.  If  I  live  a 
few  years  longer,  I  may  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
downfall  of  some  of  the  prevailing  systems  of  superstition.' 
But  Charon  would  then  lose  all  temper  and  decency.  'You 
loitering  rogue,  that  will  not  happen  these  many  hundred 
years.  Do  you  fancy  I  will  grant  you  a  lease  for  so  long  a 
time?  Get  into  the  boat  this  instant,  you  lazy,  loitering 
rogue.' " 

But,  though  Mr.  Hume  always  talked  of  his  approaching 
dissolution  with  great  cheerfulness,  he  never  affected  to  make 
any  parade  of  his  magnanimity.     He  never  mentioned  the 


THE  DEATH-BED.  309 

subject  but  when  the  conversation  naturally  led  to  it,  and 
dwelt  no  longer  upon  it  than  the  conversation  happened  to 
require:  it  was  a  subject,  indeed,  which  occurred  pretty  fre- 
quently, in  consequence  of  the  inquiries  which  his  friends,  who 
came  to  see  him,  naturally  made  concerning  the  state  of  his 
health.  The  conversation  which  I  mentioned  above,  and 
which  passed  on  Thursday,  the  8th  of  August,  was  the  last, 
except  one,  that  I  ever  hud  with  him.  He  had  now  become 
so  very  weak,  that  the  company  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
fatigued  him;  for  his  cheerfulness  was  still  so  great,  his  com- 
plaisance and  social  disposition  were  still  so  entire,  that  when 
any  friend  was  with  him,  he  could  not  help  talking  more,  and 
with  greater  exertion,  than  suited  the  weakness  of  his  body. 
At  his  own  desire,  therefore,  I  agreed  to  leave  Edinburgh, 
where  I  was  staying  partly  upon  his  account,  and  returned  to 
my  mother's  house  here,  at  Kirkaldy,  upon  condition  that  he 
would  send  for  me  whenever  he  wished  to  see  me ;  the  phy- 
sician who  saw  him  most  frequently.  Dr.  Black,  undertaking 
in  the  meantime  to  write  me  occasionally  an  account  of  the 
state  of  his  health.  On  the  22d  of  August,  the  Doctor  wrote 
me  the  following  letter: 

"Since  my  last,  Mr.  Hume  has  passed  his  time  pretty 
easily,  but  is  much  weaker.  He  sits  up,  goes  down  stairs 
once  a  day,  and  amuses  himself  with  reading,  but  seldom  sees 
anybody.  He  finds  that  even  the  conversation  of  his  most 
intimate  friends  fatigues  and  oppresses  him ;  and  it  is  happy 
that  he  does  not  need  it,  for  he  is  quite  free  from  anxiety, 
impatience,  or  low  spirits;  and  passes  his  time  very  well, 
with  the  assistance  of  amusing  books." 

1  received,  the  day  after,  a  letter  from  Mr.  Hume  myself, 
of  which  the  following  is  an  extract: 


310  THE  DEATH-BED. 

Edinburgh,  23  August.  17  76. 
My  dearest  Friend, — I  am  obliged  to  make  use  of  my 
nephew's  hand  in  writing  to  you,  as  I  do  not  rise  to-day. 
*********** 

*****  ****** 

I  go  very  fast  to  decline,  and  last  night  had  a  small  fever, 
which  I  hoped  might  put  a  quicker  period  to  this  tedious  ill 
ness,  but  unluckily  it  has,  in  a  great  measure,  gone  off.  I 
cannot  submit  to  your  coming  over  here  on  my  account,  as  it 
is  possible  for  me  to  see  you  so  small  a  part  of  the  day ;  but 
Doctor  Black  can  better  inform  you  concerning  the  degree  of 
strength  which  may  from  time  to  time  I'emain  with  me. 
Adieu,  &c. 

Three  days  after,  I  received  the  following  letter  from  Dr. 
Black : 

Edinburgh,  Monday,  Aug.  26,  IVVe. 
Dear  Sir, — Yesterday,  about  four  o'clock,  afternoon,  Mr. 
Hume  expired.  The  near  approach  of  his  death  became 
evident  in  the  night  between  Thursday  and  Friday,  when  his 
disease  became  excessive,  and  soon  weakened  him  so  much, 
that  he  could  no  longer  rise  out  of  his  bed.  He  continued  to 
the  last  perfectly  sensible,  and  free  from  much  pain  or  feel- 
ings of  distress.  He  never  dropped  the  smallest  expression 
of  impatience;  but  when  he  had  occasion  to  speak  to  the 
people  about  him,  he  always  did  it  with  affection  and  tender- 
ness. I  thought  it  improper  to  write  to  bring  you  over, 
especially  as  I  heard  that  he  dictated  a  letter  to  you,  desiring 
you  not  to  come.  When  he  became  very  weak,  it  cost  him 
an  effort  to  speak,  and  he  died  in  such  a  happy  composure  of 
mind  that  nothing  could  exceed  it. 


THE  DEATH-BED.  311 

Thus  died  our  most  excellent  and  never-to-be-forgorten 
friend;  concerning  whose  philosophical  opinions  men  will  no 
doubt  judge  variously,  every  one  approving  or  condemning 
them,  according  as  they  happen  to  coincide  or  disagree  with 
his  own;  but  concerning  whose  character  and  conduct  there 
can  scarce  be  a  difference  of  opinion.  His  temper,  indeed, 
seemed  to  be  more  happily  balanced,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
such  an  expression,  than  that  perhaps  of  any  other  man  I 
have  ever  known.  Even  in  the  lowest  state  of  his  fortune, 
his  great  and  necessary  frugality  never  hindered  him  from  ex- 
ercising, upon  proper  occasions,  acts  both  of  charity  and 
generosity.  It  was  a  frugality  founded  not  upon  avarice,  but 
upon  the  love  of  independency.  The  extreme  gentleness  of 
his  nature  never  weakened  either  the  firmness  of  his  mind 
or  the  steadiness  of  his  resolutions.  His  constant  pleasantry 
was  the  genuine  effusion  of  good  nature  and  good  humor, 
tempered  with  delicacy  and  modesty,  and  without  even  the 
slightest  tincture  of  malignity,  so  frequently  the  disagreeable 
source  of  what  is  called  wit  in  other  men.  It  never  was  the 
meaning  of  his  raillery  to  mortify;  and,  therefore,  far  from 
offending,  it  seldom  failed  to  please  and  delight  even  those 
who  were  the  objects  of  it.  To  his  friends,  who  were  fre- 
quently the  objects  of  it,  there  was  not  perhaps  any  one  of  all 
his  great  and  amiable  qualities  which  contributed  more  to 
endear  his  conversation.  And  that  gaiety  of  temper,  so  agree- 
able in  society,  but  which  is  often  accompanied  with  frivolous 
and  superficial  qualities,  was,  in  him,  certainly  attended  with 
the  most  severe  application,  the  most  extensive  learning,  the 
greatest  depth  of  thought,  and  a  capacity  in  every  respect  the 
most  comprehensive.     Upon  the  whole,  I  have  always  con- 


312  THE  DEATH-BED. 

sidered  him,  both  in  his  lifetime  and  since  his  death,  as 
approaching  as  nearly  to  the  idea  of  a  perfectly  wise  and 
virtuous  man,  as  perhaps  the  nature  of  human  frailty  will 
permit. 

I  ever  am, 

Dear  Sir, 
Most  affectionately  yours, 

Adam  Smith. 


THE  DEATH-BED.  313 


Some  of  the  last  choice  words  of  Doctor  Samuel  Finley, 
President  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey. 

Friday,  July  11,  1776.— The  Rev.  Mr.  Richard  Treat  came 
to  visit  the  Doctor,  who  desired  that  he  would  pray  by  him. 
Being  asked  what  he  should  pray  for,  he  answered,  "  Beseech 
God  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  let  me  feel  just  as  I  did  at 
that  time  when  I  first  closed  with  Christ,  at  which  time  I 
could  scarce  contain  myself  out  of  heaven." 

Dr.  S.  acquainted  him  that  he  could  live  but  a  few  days 
longer;  at  which  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  with  much  composure, 
saying,  "Then,  welcome.  Lord  Jesus."  He 'declared  himself 
under  the  greatest  obligations  to  the  doctor  for  his  kind  and 
diligent  attendance  during  his  illness,  and  said,  "I  owe  a  large 
catalogue  of  debts  to  my  friends,  which  will  never  be  charged 
to  my  account;  God  will  discharge  them  for  me." 

July  13th,  Lord's-day,  noon. — Dr.  C.  came  to  his  bed-side, 

and  told  him  there  appeared  a  very  visible  alteration  in  his 

countenance,  by  which  he  judged  death  was  not  far  off.     He 

raised  himself  upon  his  pillow,  and  broke  out,  "Then  may 

the  Lord  bring  me  near  to  himself — I  have  waited  with  a 

Canaan  hunger  for  the  j)romised  land — I  have  often  wondered 

that  God  suffered  me  to  live — I  have  wondered  more  that 

ever  he  called  me  to  be  a  minister  of  his  word.    He  has  often 

afforded  me  much  strength,  and  though  I  have  abused  it,  he 

has  returned  in  mercy.     Oh !  how  sweet  are  the  promises  of 

God!     Oh!  that  I  could  see  him  as  I  have  seen  him  hereto- 

14 


314  THE  DEATH-BED. 

fore  in  his  sanctuary!  Although  I  have  earnestly  desired 
death  as  the  hireling  pants  for  the  evening  shade,  yet  will  I 
wait  my  appointed  time.  I  have  struggled  with  principalities 
and  powers,  and  have  been  brought  almost  to  despair — Lord 
let  it  suffice." 

He  now  closed  his  eyes,  and  fervently  prayed  that  God 
would  show  him  his  glory  before  he  departed  hence — that  he 
would  enable  him  to  endure  patiently  to  the  end — and  par- 
ticularly, that  he  might  be  kept  from  dishonoring  the  minis- 
try. He  resumed  his  discom-se,  saying,  "  I  can  truly  say  that 
I  have  loved  the  service  of  God — I  know  not  in  what  language 
to  speak  of  my  own  unworthiness ;  I  have  been  undutiful;  I 
have  honestly  endeavored  to  act  for  God,  but  with  much 
weakness  and  corruption."  Here  he  lay  down,  and  spoke  as 
follows  :  "  A  Christian's  death  is  the  best  part  of  his  existence. 
The  Lord  has  made  provision  for  the  whole  way,  provision 
for  the  soul  and  for  the  body !  Oh !  that  I  could  recollect 
sabbath  blessings !  The  Lord  has  given  me  many  souls  as  a 
croNVTi  of  my  rejoicing.  Blessed  be  God,  eternal  rest  is  at 
hand;  eternity  is  long  enough  to  enjoy  my  God.  This  has 
animated  me  in  my  severest  studies.  I  was  ashamed  to  take 
rest  here.  Oh!  that  I  could  be  filled  \^^th  the  tulness  of 
God!  that  fulness  which  fills  heaven!" 

One  asked  him,  if  it  was  in  his  choice  either  to  live  or  to 
die,  which  he  would  prefer?  He  replied,  "To  die.  Though  I 
cannot  but  say,  I  feel  the  same  difficulty  with  St.  Paul.  But 
should  God,  by  a  miracle  prolong  my  life,  I  will  still  continue 
to  serve  him :  his  service  has  ever  been  sweet  to  me.  I  have 
loved  it  much.  I  have  tried  my  Master's  yoke,  and  will 
never  shrink  my  neck  from  it.  His  yoke  is  easy,  and  his 
burden  light." 


THE  DEATH-BED.  315 

'•You  are  more  cheerful,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  company. 
"  Yes,  I  rise  or  fall  as  eternal  rest  appears  nearer  or  further 
off." 

It  being  observed  to  him,  that  he  always  used  that  ex- 
pression, "Dear  Lord^''  in  his  prayers;  he  answered,  "Oh! 
he  is  very  dear^  very  precious  indeed!  How  pretty  for  a 
minister  to  die  upon  the  sabbath!  I  expect  to  spend  the  re- 
maining part  of  this  sabbath  in  heaven." 

One  said,  "You  will  soon  be  joined  to  a  blessed  society; 
you  will  for  ever  converse  with  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
with  the  spii-its  of  just  men  made  perfect,  with  old  friends, 
and  many  old-fashioned  people.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  replied  with 
a  smile,  "but  they  are  a  most  polite  people  now." 

He  frequently  expressed  great  gratitude  to  his  friends 
arouiid  him,  but  very  particularly  to  the  kind  family  he  was 
in ;  and  said,  "  May  the  Lord  repay  you  for  your  tenderness 
of  me;  may  he  bless  you  abundantly,  not  only  with  temporal 
but  spiritual  blessings."  Addressing  himself  to  all  that  were 
present,  he  said,  "Oh  that  each  of  you  may  experience  what, 
blessed  be  God,  I  do,  when  ye  come  to  die!  May  you  have 
the  pleasure  of  reflecting  in  a  dying  hour,  that  with  faith  and 
'patience,  zeal  and  sincerity,  you  have  endeavored  to  serve  the 
Lord ;  that  each  of  you  may  be  impressed,  as  I  have  been, 
with  God's  word,  looking  upon  it  as  substantial,  and  not  only 
fearing,  but  unwilling  to  offend  against  it." 

To  a  person  about  to  return  to  Princeton,  he  said,  "  Give 
my  love  to  the  people  of  Princeton;  tell  them  I  am  going  to 
die,  and  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  death."  He  would  some- 
times cry  out,  "The  Lord  Jesus  take  care  of  his  cause  in  the 
world." 

Monday,  14th. — Waking  this  morning,  "  Oh !  what  a  dis- 


316  THE  DEATHBED. 

appointment  have  I  met  with;  I  expected  thi3  morning  to 
have  been  in  heaven!"  'His  great  weakness  prevented  his 
much  speaking  to-day :  what  few  words  he  uttered,  breathed 
the  h^nguage  of  triumph. 

Tuesday,  15th. — With  a  pleasing  smile  and  strong  voice 
he  cried  out,  "Oh!  I  shall  triumph  over  every  foe!  The 
Lord  hath  given  me  the  victory !  I  exult,  I  triumph !  Oh ! 
that  I  could  see  untainted  purity !  Now  I  know  that  it  is 
impossible  that  faith  should  not  triumph  over  earth  and  hell; 
I  think  I  have  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  die.  Perhaps  I  have; 
Lord,  show  me  my  task." 

After  expressing  some  fears  that  he  did  not  endeavor  to 
preserve  his  remaining  life  through  eagerness  to  depart,  and 
being  told  he  did  nothing  inconsistent  with  self-preservation, 
he  said,  "Lord  Jesus,  into  thine  hands  I  commit  my  spirit. 
/  do  it  with  coiifidence,  I  do  it  ivith  full  assurance.  I  know 
tliiit  thou  wilt  keep  that  which  I  have  committed  unto  thee. 
I  have  been  dreaming  too  fust  of  the  time  of  my  departure. 
I  find  it  does  not  come;  but  the  Lord  is  fuitliful,  and  will  not 
tarry  beyond  his  appointed  time." 

When  one  who  attended  him  told  him  his  pulse  grew 
weaker,  he  expressed  with  pleasure,  that  it  was  well.  He 
often  would  put  forth  his  hand  to  his  physicians,  and  ask 
them  how  his  ^^i^'lse  beat;  and  would  rejoice  when  he  was 
told  it  was  fluttering  or  irrregular. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Spencer  came  to  see  him, 
and  said,  "I  am  come,  dear  sir,  to  hear  you  confirm  by  facts 
the  gospel  you  have  preached.  Pray  how  do  you  feel?" 
The  doctor  replied,  "Full  of  triumph.  I  triumph  through 
Christ.  Nothing  clips  my  wings  but  the  thoughts  of  my 
dissolution  being  prolonged.     Oh!  that  it  was  to-night.     My 


THE  DEATH-BED.  317 

very  soul  thirsts  for  eternal  rest."  Mr.  Spencer  asked  him, 
what  he  saw  in  eternity  to  excite  suc]i  vehement  desires  in  his 
soul?  He  replied,  "I  see  a  God  of  love  and  goodness — I  see 
the  fulness  of  my  Mediator — I  see  the  love  of  Jesus.  Oh ! 
to  be  dissolved ;  to  be  with  him !  I  long  to  be  clothed  with 
the  complete  righteousness  of  Christ,  not  only  imputed,  but 
inherent."  He  desired  Mr.  Spencer  to  pi'ay  before  they 
parted.  "Pray  that  God  will  preserve  me  from  evil — that 
he  would  keep  me  from  dishonoring  his  great  name  in  this 
critical  hour;  and  support  me  in  my  passage  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.'''' 

He  spent  the  remaining  part  of  the  day  in  bidding  farewell 
to  and  blessing  his  friends;  and  exhorting  such  of  his  children 
as  were  with  him.  He  would  frequently  cry  out,  "Why 
move  the  tardy  hours  so  slow  V 

July  16th,  his  speech  failed  him.  He  made  many  efforts 
to  speak,  but  seldom  so  distinct  as  to  be  understood.  Mr. 
Roberdeau  desired  him  to  give  some  token  whereby  his 
friends  might  know  whether  he  still  continued  to  triumph. 
He  lifted  up  his  hands  and  said,  "Yes."  This  afternoon  he 
uttered  several  sentences,  but  little  could  be  collected  from 
them. 

Some  of  his  very  last  words  concerning  himself  were, 
"After  one  or  two  more  engagements  the  conflict  will  be 
over."  About  nine  o'clock  he  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  and 
appeared  much  freer  from  pain  than  for  several  days  before. 
He  continued  to  sleep,  without  moving  in  the  least,  till  one 
o'clock;  when  he  expired  without  a  sigh  or  a  groan,  or  any 
kind  of  motion  sufficient  to  alarm  his  wife,  and  those  friends 
who  were  about  his  bed.  During  his  whole  sickness,  he  was 
never  heard  to  utter  one  repining  word.     He  was  at  times 


318  THE  DEATH-BED. 

tortured  with  the  most  excruciating  pains;  yet  he  expressed 
in  all  his  behavior  an  entire  resignation  to  the  divine  will. 
In  all  his  affecting  farewells  to  his  relations  and  friends,  he 
was  never  seen  to  shed  a  tear,  or  show  the  least  mark  of 
sorrow.  He  often  checked  his  affectionate  wife  when  she 
was  weeping;  and  he  expressed  his  unshaken  confidence  in  the 
promises  of  his  God,  whenever  he  spoke  of  his  dear  children. 
His  truly  polite  behavior  continued  to  the  last,  and  mani- 
fested itself  whenever  he  called  for  a  drop  of  drink  to  wet  his 
lips.  Every  one  around  him  was  treated  with  that  same 
sweetness  and  ease  that  were  so  peculiar  and  natural  to  him. 
In  fine,  he  was  a  most  striking  example  of  that  faith  which 
kindles  love  in  the  heart,  and  produces  the  sweet  fruits  of 
meekness,  gentleness,  patience,  and  every  Christian  grace  and 
virtue. 


THE  DEATH-BED.  319 


Remarks  on  the  preceding  accounts  of  the  death  of  David 
Hume,  Esq.,  and  Samuel  Finley,  D.  D. 

The  common  sense  and  feelings  of  mankind  have  always 
taught  them  to  consider  death  as  a  most  awi'ul  and  interesting 
event.  If  it  were  nothing  more  than  a  sepai'ation  from  all 
that  we  love  in  this  world — the  dissolution  of  our  bodies — 
and  the  termination  of  our  present  mode  of  existence — there 
would  be  sufficient  reason  for  approaching  it  with  tender  and 
solemn  reflection.  But  when  we  add  those  anticipations  of 
which  very  few,  if  any,  can  wholly  divest  themselves;  that 
scene  of  "untried  being,"  which  lies  before  us;  and  especially 
that  eternity  which  the  Christian  revelation  unfolds,  death  be- 
comes an  object  oi  unutterable  moment;  and  every  sober 
thought  of  it  bears  upon  the  heart  with  a  weight  of  solicitude 
which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  unaided  reason  to  remove. 
The  mere  possibility  of  our  living  hereafter,  is  enough  to  en- 
gage the  attention  of  a  wise  man:  th^ probability  of  it  is  too 
grave  and  affecting  to  leave  an  excuse  for  indifference:  and 
the  certainty  with  which  the  scriptures  speak  of  it,  as  of  an 
immortality  of  blessedness  or  of  woe,  allows  to  light  and 
ludicrous  speculations  concerning  it,  no  other  character  than 
that  of  the  insanity  of  wickedness.     • 

When  that  hour  draws  nigh  which  shall  close  the  business 
of  life,  and  summon  the  spirit  to  the  bar  of  "God  who  gave 
it,"  all  the  motives  to  deception  cease,  and  those  false  reason- 


320  THE  DEATH-BED. 

ings  which  blind  the  judgment  are  dissipated.  It  is  the  hour 
of  truth  and  of  sincerity.  Such  at  least,  is  the  general  fact 
which  cannot  be  invalidated  by  the  concession  that,  in  some 
instances,  men  have  Iseen  found  to  cherish  their  infatuations, 
and  practice  their  knavery,  to  the  very  last.  Tlieir  number, 
in  places  which  enjoy  the  pure  gospel,  the  only  ones  in  our 
present  view,  is  too  small  to  make  any  perceptible  difference 
in  the  amount;  or  to  disparage  that  respectful  credence  with 
w^hich  the  rustic  and  the  sage  listen  to  the  testimony  of  a 
dying  bed. 

By  this  testimony  the  "gospel  of  the  grace  of  God,"  has 
obtained,  among  every  people  and  in  every  age,  such  strong 
confirmation,  and  has  carried  into  the  human  conscience  such 
irresistible  appeals  for  its  truth,  its  power,  and  its  glorious 
excellency,  that  its  enemies  have  labored  with  all  their  might 
to  discredit  these  triumphs.  They  have  attacked  the  princi- 
ple upon  which  the  testimony  of  a  dying  believer  rests.  They 
have  said  that  the  mind,  being  necessarily  enfeebled  by  the 
ravages  of  mortal  disease  upon  the  body,  is  not  a  compe- 
tent judge  of  its  own  operations — that  the  looks,  the  tears, 
the  whole  conduct  of  surrounding  friends,  excite  artificial 
emotions  in  the  dying — that  superstition  has  a  prodigious 
ascendency  over  their  imagination — that  their  joyful  impres- 
sions of  heaven  are  the  mere  reveries  of  a  disturbed  brain — 
that  their  serenity,  their  steady  hope,  their  placid  faith,  are 
only  the  natural  consequence  of  long  habit,  which  never 
operates  more  freely  than  when  the  faculty  of  reflection  is  im- 
paired. All  this,  and  more  like  this,  do  unhappy  mortals 
who  take  or  pretend  to  take,  pleasure  in  putting  an  extin- 
guisher upon  the  light  of  life,  detail  with  an  air  of  superiority, 
as  if  they  had  fiillen  upon  a  discovery  which  merits  the  plau- 


THE  DEATH-BED.  321 

dits  of  the  world.  But  were  it  even  so — were  the  Christian 
victory  over  death  only  a  dream,  it  is  a  dream  so  sweet  and 
blessed,  that  with  the  scourger  of  Lord  Bolinghroke's  philos- 
ophy, I  should  "account  that  man  a  villain  that  awoke  me — 
awoke  me  to  truth  and  misery."  *  But  I  am  not  going  to 
discuss  this  question.  The  poor  Infidel  does  not  believe  him- 
self, and  why  should  others  believe  him?  With  one  breath 
he  endeavors  to  cry  down  the  argument  to  be  derived  in  favor 
of  their  religion,  from  the  peaceful  death  of  Christians;  and 
with  the  next  to  enlist  it  in  his  own  service.  He  omits  no 
opportunity  of  celebrating  the  intrepidity  of  composure  dis- 
played by  sceptical  brethren  in  their  last  moments.  Let  the 
letter  of  Dr.  Adam  Smith,  concerning  the  death  of  David 
Hume,  Esq.,  be  a  proof  Every  sentence  betrays  his  anxiety 
to  set  off  his  friend  to  the  best  advantage.  The  dullest  ob- 
server cannot  but  perceive  his  design  to  compare  Mr.  Hume, 
dying  an  Infidel,  with  a  Christian  dying  in  the  faith  of  Jesus. 
Let  us  draw  out,  at  length,  that  comparison  which  he  has 
only  insinuated;  and  that  the  effect  may  be  more  decisive, 
let  us  remember  that  the  whole  annals  of  unbelief  do  not 
furnish  a  more  favorable  example  than  he  has  selected.  Mr. 
Hume  was  a  man  of  undisputed  genius.  Llis  versatile  talent, 
his  intense  application,  his  large  acquirements,  and  his  uncom- 
mon acuteness,  place  him,  perhaps,  at  the  head  of  those 
enemies  of  revelation  who  attempt  to  reason;  as  Voltaire 
stands  without  a  rival  among  those  who  only  scoff.  He  had, 
besides,  what  rarely  belongs  to  the  ascei'tained  Infidel,  a  good 
moral  reputation.     We  mean,  that  he  was  not  addicted  to 

*  Hunter's  view  of  the  philosophical  character  and  writings  of  Lord 
Viscount  Bolingbroke. 


322  THE  DEATH-BED. 

lewdness,  to  drunkenness,  to  knavery,  to  profone  swearing,* 
or  any  of  those  grosser  vices  which  are  the  natural  and  ordi- 

*  Ou  further  recollection,  we  are  compelled  to  deduct  from  Mr.  Hume's 
morality  his  freedom  from  profane  swearing.  For,  in  an  account  of  the 
life  and  writings  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Robertson,  the  great  historian,  drawn  up 
by  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  there  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Hume  to  the 
doctor,  in  which  he  descends  to  the  coarse  and  vulgar  profanity  of  the  ale- 
house and  the  main-deck.  To  ask  his  reverend  correspondent,  the  princi- 
pal of  the  University  of  Edinburgh — the  ecclesiastical  premier  of  the  church 
of  Scotland,  "What  the  devil  he  had  to  do  with  that  old-fashioned,  dang- 
ling word,  wherewith  ?  " — and  to  tell  him,  "  I  will  see  you  d d  sooner," 

viz.  than  "  swallow  your  hath."  * — are  such  gross  violations  of  decency, 
that  unless  Mr.  Hume  had  been  accustomed  to  adorn  his  speech  with 
similar  expletives,  they  never  could  have  found  their  way  into  a  familiar 
letter,  much  less   into  a  letter  designed  for  the  eye  of  a  man  to  whom, 
considering  his  profession  only,  they  were  a  direct  insult.     We  do  not 
wonder  that  Mr.  Stuart  should  "  hesitate  about  the  propriety  of  subjecting 
to  the  criticisms  of  the  world  so  careless  an  effusion."     But  knowing,  as 
we  do,  the  urbanity  of  that  gentleman's  manners,  the  elegance  of  his 
mind,  and  his  high  sense  of  decorum,  we  much  wonder  that  his  hesitation 
had  not  a  different  issue.     We  fear  that  all  men  of  sobriety — we  are  sure 
that  all  men  of  religion — will  refuse  to  accept  Mr.  Hume's  "  gaiety  and 
affection"  as  an  apology  for  his  vileness,  or  to  let  it  pass  off  under  the 
mask  of  "  playful  and  good-natured  irony."    If  a  philosopher's  "  affection" 
must  vent  itself  in  ribaldry — if  he  cannot  be  "  playful  and  good-natured" 
without  plundering  the  waterman  and  scavenger  of  their   appropriate 
phraseology,  we  own  that  his  conversation  has  no  attractions  for  us.    Such 
a  "  glimpse"  as  this  letter  affords  of  the  "  writer  and  his  correspondent  in 
the  habits  of  private  intercourse"  is  far  from  "  suggesting  not  unpleasing 
pictures  of  the  hours  which  they  borrowed  from  business  and  study." 
But  the  most  melancholy  reflection  is,  that  such  intimacies  and  correspon- 
dences furnish  an  index  of  Dr.  Robertson's  own  character.     The  Infidels 
never  allowed  that  he  had  anything  of  the  Christian  minister  but  his 
canonicals  and  his  sermons.     With  these  exceptions  they  claimed  him  as 
their  own,  and  their  claim  appears  to  have  been  too  well  founded. 

*  An  account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  William  Robertson,  D.D., 
prefixed  to  his  works,  pp.  80,  81. 


THE  DEATH-BED.  323 

nary  companions  of  enmity  to  the  gospel.  For  otherwise,  as 
he  labored  to  unsettle  all  fixed  principles  of  belief;  to  overturn 
the  whole  system  of  moral  obligation;  to  obliterate  a  sense 
of  God's  authority  from  the  conscience;  and  positively  to  in- 
culcate the  innocence  of  the  greatest  crimes,  he  must  be 
accounted  one  of  the  most  flagitiously  immoral  men  that 
ever  lived. 

His  panegyrist,  too,  was  a  man  of  superior  parts  and  pro- 
f(jund  erudition.  The  name  of  Adam  Smith  will  always  rank 
high  in  the  republic  of  letters,  and  will  never  be  pronounced 
but  with  respect  by  the  political  economist.  Mr.  Hume  can 
have  lost  nothing,  has  possibly  gained  much,  by  the  pen  of 
his  friend.  Taking  him,  therefore,  as  the  letter  to  JMr.  Stra- 
han  represents  him,  let  us  contrast  him  with  that  servant  of 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Dr.  Samuel  Finley. 

Whatever  be  a  man's  opinions,  one  of  his  most  rational 
occupations  in  the  prospect  of  leaving  the  world  is  to  look 
back  upon  the  manner  in  which  he  has  passed  through  it,  to 
compare  his  duties  with  his  conduct,  and  to  inquire  how  far 
lie  deserves  the  approbation  or  the  reproach  of  his  own  con- 
science. With  a  Christian,  this  admits  not  of  dispute.  Nor 
will  it  be  disputed  by  a  Deist,  who  professes  his  faith  in  the 
being  and  providence  of  God,  and  a  state  of  rewards  and 
punishments  hereafter  proportioned  to  the  degree  of  crime  or 
of  virtue  here.  To  such  a  one  it  is,  upon  his  own  principles, 
a  question  of  unspeakable  importance,  whether  he  shall  com- 
mence his  future  existence  with  hopes  of  happiness  or  with 
fears  of  misery;  especially  as  he  relies  much  upon  the  efficacy 
of  penitence  and  prayer  in  procuring  forgiveness  of  his  faults, 
indulgence  to  his  infirmities,  and  a  general  mitigation  of 
whatever  is  unfavorable.     Nay,  the   mortal    Deist,  or  the 


324  THE  DEATH-BED. 

Atheist  himself,  for  they  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  a  dis- 
tinction, ought,  for  tluar  own  sakes  in  this  life,  to  be  so  em- 
ployed. If  with  the  rejection  of  all  religious  constraint,  they 
have  not  also  uprooted  every  affection  of  their  nature,  nothing 
could  afford  them  more  gratification  in  the  evening  of  their 
days  than  the  consciousness  of  their  having  contributed  some- 
thing to  the  mass  of  human  comfort.  In  short,  whether  we 
argue  upon  Christian  or  unchristian  grounds,  it  can  be  the 
interest  of  none  but  the  worthless  and  the  malignant  to  shut 
their  eyes  upon  their  own  history,  and  sink  down  in  death  as 
a  bullock  drops  under  the  knife  of  his  executioner. 

Yet  strange  as  it  may  appear,  and  inconsistent  as  it  cer- 
tainly is  with  his  high  pretensions,  there  are  few  things  so 
rare  as  a  dying  Infidel  taking  a  deliberate  retrospect  of  life. 
AVe  say  a  deliberate  retrospect;  for  it  is  undeniable,  that  on 
many  of  those,  who,  like  the  apostate  Julian,  waged  impla- 
cable war  with  the  Galilean,  conscience,  recovering  from  its 
slumbers,  has  at  the  hour  of  death,  or  the  apprehension  of  it, 
forced  an  unwilling  and  tormenting  recollection  of  their  deeds. 
The  point  of  honor  in  their  philosophy  seems  to  be,  and  their 
utmost  attainment  is,  to  keep  completely  out  of  view  both 
the  past  and  the  future.  This  was  evidently  the  case  with 
Mr.  Hume.  Read  over  again  Dr.  Smith's  letter  to  Mr. 
Strahan,  and  you  will  not  find  a  syllable  from  which  you 
could  gather  that  there  is  an  hereafter,  a  providelipe,  or  a 
God — not  a  sentence  to  indicate  that  Mr.  Hume  believed  he 
had  ever  committed  a  sin,  or  was  in  any  respect  an  accouut- 
al)le  being. 

Turn  now  away  from  the  philosopher,  and  hear  what  a 
believer  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Clirist  has  to  sa}-.  jMeltiiig  into 
gratitude  for  that   n\crcy   which   he   had   received   from   his 


THE  DEATH-BED.  305 

heavenly  Father,  he  goes  back  to  the  commencement  of  his 
Christian  course,  and  desires  his  friend  to  pray  that  God 
"would  be  pleased  to  let  him  feel  just  as  he  did  at  that  time 
when  he  first  closed  with  Christ,"  and  the  rapture  of  his  soul 
came  near  to  the  blessedness  of  heaven.  With  deep  humility 
he  owns  his  siufulness;  not  a  whisper  of  extenuation  or 
apology  does  he  utter — "I  know  not  in  what  language  to 
speak  of  my  own  unworthiness — I  have  been  undutiful." 
But  with  great  tenderness,  as  in  the  presence  of  the  Omnis- 
cient, he  attests  his  satisfaction  with  time  spent  in  his  Chris- 
tian duties  and  enjoyments.  "I  can  truly  say,  that  I  have 
loved  the  service  of  God — I  have  honestly  endeavored  to  act 
for  God,  but  with  much  weakness  and  corruption — I  have 
tried  my  Master's  yoke,  and  will  never  shrink  my  neck  from 
it."  That  he  had  been  useful  to  others  and  instrumental  in 
their  salvation,  was  to  him  a  source  of  pure  and  elevated  joy. 
"The  Lord  has  given  me  many  souls  as  a  crown  of  my  re- 
joicing." 

What  think  you,  now,  reader,  of  Mr.  Hume  and  Dr.  Fin- 
ley,  with  regard  to  their  retrospect  of  life?  Who  evinces 
most  of  the  good  and  the  virtuous  man  I  Whose  reflections, 
is  it  reasonable  to  conclude,  were  the  most  delightful?  His, 
who  let  none  of  them  escape  his  lips?  or  his,  whose  words 
were  inadequate  to  express  their  abundance  or  their  sweet- 
ness? No;  the  one  had  not  delightful  recollections  to  com- 
municate. High  happiness  is  never  selfish.  The  ovez'flowing 
heart  pours  off  its  exuberance  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend. 
And  had  Mr.  H.  had  anything  of  this  sort  to  impart,  his  com- 
panions and  encomiasts  would  have  sliared  in  his  pleasure, 
and  would  not  have  forgotten  to  tell  the  world  of  its  luxury. 
Their  silence  is  a  sufficient  comment. 


326  THE  DEATH-BED. 

Let  us  extend  our  comparison  to  a  particular,  which,  more 
than  almost  anything  else,  touches  the  pride  of  philosophy ; 
we  mean  the  dignity  displayed  by  the  Infidel  and  by  the 
Christian  respectively. 

Ask  Dr.  Smith.  He  will  tell  you  that  at  the  very  time 
when  he  knew  his  dissolution  was  near,  Mr.  Hume  continued 
to  "divert  himself  as  usual,  with  correcting  his  own  works  foi 
a  new  edition:  with  reading  books  of  amusement;  with  the 
conversation  of  his  friends;  and  sometimes,  in  the  evening, 
Vith  a  party  at  his  favorite  game  of  whist."  Behold  the 
dying  occupation  of  a  captain  of  Infidelity!  Of  one  who  is 
eulogized  "as  approaching  as  nearly  to  the  idea  of  a  perfectly 
wise  and  virtuous  man,  as  perhaps  the  nature  of  human  frailty 
will  admit" — his  most  serious  employment  is  "diverting  him- 
self." Just  about  to  yield  up  his  last  breath,  and  "diverting 
himself!"  i^Vom  Avhat?  Let  them  answer  who  know  that 
there  are  apt  to  be  troublesome  visitors  to  the  imagination 
and  the  conscience  of  one  who  has  prostituted  his  powers  to 
the  purpose 'of  spreading  rebellion  against  the  God  who  made 
him!  "Diverting  himself!"  With^\\at1  With  correcting 
his  own  works  for  a  new  edition !  a  considerable  portion  of 
which  "works"  is  destined  to  prove  that  justice,  mercy,  faith, 
and  all  tlic  circle  of  both  the  duties  and  charities,  are  obliga- 
tory only  because  they  are  useful ;  and,  by  consequence,  that 
their  opposites  shall  be  obligatory  when  they  shall  appear  to 
be  more  useful — that  the  religion  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  which 
has  "brought  life  and  immortality  to  light,"  is  an  impos- 
ture— that  adultery  is  a  bagatelle,  and  suicide  a  virtue! 
With  what?  With  reading  books  of  amuseinent.  The  ad- 
ventures of  Don  Quixote;  the  tales  of  the  genii;  a  novel, 
a  tragedy,  a  farce,  a  collection   of  sonnets;  anything  but 


THE  DEATH-BED.  827 

those  sober  and  searching  treatises  which  are  fit  for  one  who 
"considers  his  latter  end."  TFzVAwhatl  With  what?  With 
the  conversation  of  his  friends,  such  as  Dr,  Smith,  and  Dr. 
Black,  another  famous  Infidel,  who,  as  they  had  nothing  invi- 
ting to  discuss  about  futurity,  and  Mr.  Hume  could  not  bear 
the  fatigue  of  abstruse  speculation,  must  have  entertained  him 
with  all  that  jejune  small  talk  Avhich  makes  great  wits  look 
so  very  contemptible  when  they  have  nothing  to  say.  With 
what?  With  an  evening  party  at  his  favorite  game  of  whist? 
A  card-table !  and  all  that  nauseous  gabble  for  which  the  card- 
table  is  renowned!  The  question  is  to  be  decided,  whether 
such  stupendous  faculties  as  had  been  lavished  upon  Mr. 
Hume  were  to  be  blasted  into  annihilation,  or  expanded  to  the 
vision  and  fruition  of  the  Infinite  Good,  or  converted  into 
inlets  of  endless  pain,  despair,  and  horror?  A  question  which 
might  convulse  the  abyss,  and  move  the  thrones  of  heaven — 
and  while  the  decision  is  preparing — preparing  for  him,  Mr. 
II.  sits  down  to  a  gaming-board,  with  gambling  companions, 
to  be  "diverted"  with  the  chances  of  the  cards  and  the  edify- 
ing conversation  to  which  they  give  rise  !  Such  is  the  dignity 
of  this  almost  "  perfectly  wuse  and  virtuous  man  !  "  Such  a 
philosopher'' s  preparation  for  death  ! 

Let  us  leave  him  at  the  card-table,  and  pay  a  second  visit 
to  Dr.  Finley.  From  his  gracious  lips  not  a  trifling  word 
escapes.  In  his  ardent  soul,  now  ready  to  speed  its  flight  to 
the  spirits  of  the  just,  there  is  no  room  for  "diversion,"  for 
"  correcting"  compositions,  for  "  books  of  amusement,"  or  for 
"games  of  whist."  The  everlasting  life  of  those  around 
him — the  spiritual  prosperity  of  a  congregation  dear  to 
him — the  interests  of  his  Redeemer  amonsr  the  nations — 
these,  these  are  the  themes  which  fill  his  thoii<>hts  and  dwell 


328  THE  DEATH-BED. 

upon  his  tongue.  "Oh  that  each  of  you,"  says  he^to  the 
spectators  of  his  pain,  "  may  experience  what,  blessed  be  God, 
I  do,  when  ye  come  to  die."  "  Give  my  love  to  the  people 
of  Princeton ;  tell  them  that  I  am  going  to  die,  and  that  I  am 
not  afraid  of  death.  The  Lord  Jesus  take  care  of  his  cause 
in  the  world." 

The  manner  in  which  Mr.  H.  and  Dr.  F.  directly  contem- 
plated death,  aud  the  effects  of  death,  presents  another  strong 
point  of  contrast. 

It  is  evident  from  the  whole  of  Dr.  Smith's  narrative,  that 
the  former  confined  or  wished  to  confine  his  view  to  the  mere 
phi/sical  event — to  the  bodily  anguish  which  it  might  create, 
and  its  putting  a  period  to  earthly  enjoyments.  The  whole 
of  the  philosopher's  "  magnanimity  "  centres  here.  Allowing 
to  his  composure  under  these  views  of  death  as  much  as  can 
reasonably  be  demanded,  we  do  not  perceive  in  it  all  that 
"magnanimity"  which  is  perceived  by  Dr.  S.  Thousands, 
who  had  no  pretensions  to  philosophical  preeminence,  have 
been  Mr.  H.'s  equals  on  this  ground.  If  he  had  succeeded  in 
persuading  himself,  as  his  writings  tend  to  persuade  others, 
that  the  spirit  of  man,  like  the  spirit  of  a  beast,  "  goeth  down- 
wards ; "  that  when  the  breath  should  leave  his  body,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  Mr.  Hume;  that  the  only  change  would 
be  to  "  turn  a  few  ounces  of  blood  into  a  different  channel " — 
to  vary  the  form  of  a  cluster  of  corpuscles,  or  to  scatter  a 
bundle  of  perceptions  up  and  down  through  that  huge  collec- 
tion of  impressions  and  ideas,  that  stuj)endous  mass  of  nothings 
of  which  his  philosophy  had  sagaciously  discovered  the  whole 
material  and  intellectual  world  to  be  composed — if  tliis  Mere 
all,  we  cannot  discern  in  what  his  magnanimity  consisted.  It 
is  cliiefly  as  a  7noral  event  that  death  is  interesting — as  an 


THE  DEATH-BED.  329 

event  which,  instead  of  putting  an  end  to  our  existence,  only 
introduces  us  to  a  mode  of  existence  as  much  more  interest- 
ing than  the  present  as  eternity  is  more  interesting  than 
time. 

It  is  this  view  that  chiefly  engaged  the  attention  of  Dr. 
Finley.  In  common  with  others  he  was  to  undergo  the  pains 
of  dissolution.  But  he  rested  not  in  these.  He  fixed  his  eye 
upon  that  new  form  which  all  his  relations  to  God,  to  holi- 
ness, to  sin,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  future  world,  were 
shortly  to  assume.  The  reader,  we  doubt  not,  perceives  the 
immense  disparity  between  these  cases.  Mr.  H.  looks  at 
death  as  it  affects  the  affairs  of  this  world.  Dr.  F.  as  it  in- 
volves eternal  issues.  Mr.  H.,  according  to  his  own  notions, 
had  nothing  to  encounter  but  the  struggles  of  nature,  and 
nothing  to  lose  but  a  few  temporal  enjoyments.  Before  Dr. 
Y.  was  the  tribunal  of  God,  and  the  stake  at  hazard  was  an 
immortal  soul.  An  error  here  is  irretrievable;  the  very 
thought  of  its  possibility  is  enough  to  shake  every  fibre  of  the 
frame;  and  proportionably  precious  and  certain  must  be  that 
religion  which  can  assure  the  believer  of  his  safety,  and  con- 
vey him  with  peacefulness  and  pleasure  to  his  Father's 
house. 

This  being  the  case,  let  us  weigh  the  consolations  of  the 
philosopher  against  those  of  the  Christian. 

Dr.  Smith  has  made  the  most  of  them  in  behalf  of  the 
former,  but  a  very  little  scrutiny  will  show  that  they  are  light 
and  meagre  indeed.  "I  am  dying,"  they  are  the  words  of 
Mr.  H.,  "as  easily  and  cheerfully  as  my  best  friends  could 
desire."  "When  he  became  very  weak,"  says  Dr.  Black, 
"it  cost  him  an  effort  to  speak;  and  he  died  in  such  a  happy 
composure  of  mind,  that  nothing  could  exceed  it." 


330  THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  are  not  without  suspicion,  that  on  the  part  of  Mr,  H. 
there  is  some  affectation  here;  and  on  the  part  of  his  friends, 
some  pretty  high  coloring.  In  the  mouth  of  a  Christian, 
''composure,"  " cheerfuhiess,"  "complacency,"  "resignation," 
"  happiness,"  in  death,  have  an  exquisite  meaning.  But  what 
meaning  can  they  have  in  the  mouth  of  one,  the  very  best  of 
whose  expectations  is  the  extinction  of  his  being?  Is  there 
any  "  complacency  "  in  the  thought  of  perishing  ?  any  "  happi- 
ness "  in  the  dreary  and  dismal  anticipation  of  being  blotted 
out  of  life?  It  is  a  farce;  it  is  a  mockery  of  every  human 
feeling;  and  every  throbbing  of  the  heart  convicts  it  of  a  lie. 
But  Mr.  Hume  expected  a  better  state  of  existence — nay,  talk 
not  of  that.  There  is  not,  either  in  his  own  expressions  or  those 
of  his  friends,  the  faintest  allusion  to  futurity.  That  glorious 
light,  which  shines  through  the  grave  upon  the  redeemed  of 
the  Lord,  was  the  object  of  his  derision.  No  comfort  from 
this  quarter.  The  accomplishment  of  his  earthly  wishes  and 
the  prosperity  of  his  near  relatives,  are  the  only  reasons 
assigned  for  his  cheerfulness.  But  these  are  insufficient.  In 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  they  have  not  availed  to  preclude 
the  most  alarming  forebodings;  and  why  should  they  do 
more  for  Mr.  Hume  ? 

In  the  next  place,  how  shall  we  interpret  his  "  resignation  1" 
Resignation  to  what  1  To  the  Divine  Will  ?  O  no  !  God 
was  not  in  all  his  thoughts.  But  death  was  at  hand,  and  he 
could  not  escape ;  he  submitted  to  a  stroke  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  avoid.  And  all  that  is  said  of  his  "  composure," 
and  "cheerfulness,"  and  "resignation,"  and  "complacency," 
when  measured  by  the  scale  of  truth,  amounts  to  no  more 
than  a  sottish  unconcern  set  off  with  a  fictitious  gaiety.  It  is 
easy  to  work  up  a  fine  description,  and  it  is  often  most  fine 


THE  DEATH-BED.  331 

wJien  most  remote  from  the  fact.  Let  any  Infidel  between 
the  poles  produce,  if  he  can,  a  reason  that  shall  satisfy  a  child 
why  one,  who  has  lived  without  God,  should  find  "compla- 
cency" in  death.  Nothing  but  that  "hope  which  maketh  not 
ashamed"  is  a  cause  equal  to  such  an  effect.  But  "hope" 
beyond  the  grave  is  a  word  which  had  no  place  in  Mr. 
Hume's  vocabulary,  because  the  thing  had  no  place  in  his 
soul.     It  is  plain,  however,  that  he 

Felt  his  ruling  passion  strong  in  death. 

Whatever  his  decay  had  weakened,  his  desire  to  see  "the 
downfixU  of  some  of  the  prevailing  systems  of  superstition," 
which  with  Mr.  Hume  meant  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
destruction  of  Christianity,  in  every  modification,  retained  its 
whole  vigor.  And  thus,  while  venting  his  spite  at  the  only 
"system"  which  ever  could  render  death  comfortable,  he 
goes  to  Lucien's  dialogues,  and  edifies  his  friends  with  chatter- 
ing nonsense  about  Charon  and  his  boat.  0  coecas  hominum 
mentes!  Nothing  can  be  more  blind  and  infatuated  than  the 
fanaticism  of  philosophy  "falsely  so  called."  With  this 
puerile  levity  before  our  eyes,  and  this  contemptible  babbling 
sounding  in  our  ears,  we  must  listen  to  tales  of  Mr.  Hume's 
magnanimity,  complacency,  and  resignation ! 

From  a  barren  exhibition  of  Atheism,  let  us  repair  once 
more  to  the  servant  of  God.  In  Dr.  Finley  we  see  a  man 
dying,  not  only  with  cheerfulness,  but  with  ecstasy.  Of  his 
friends,  his  wife,  his  children,  lie  takes  a  joyful  leave;  com- 
mitting all  that  he  held  most  dear  in  this  world,  not  to  the 
uncertainties  of  earthly  fortune,  but  to  the  "  promises  of  his 
God."  Although  his  temporal  circumstances  were  very 
moderate;  although  he  had  sons  and  daughters  to  provide 


332  THE  DEATH-BED. 

for,  and  slender  means  of  doing  it,  he  felt  not  a  moment's 
uneasiness — Leave  thy  fatherless  children  with  me;  I  will 
preserve  them  alive ;  and  let  thy  widows  trust  in  me,  was  in 
his  estimation  a  better  security  for  their  support  than  any 
inheritance  in  lands  or  lucre.  And  as  to  death  itself — who 
but  one  "  filled  with  hopes  full  of  immortality  "  could  use 
such  language  as  this — "  A  Christian's  death  is  the  best  part 
of  his  existence  " — "  Blessed  be  God  !  eternal  rest  is  at  hand." 
"O,  I  shall  triumph  over  every  foe,"  (he  meant  sin,  Satan, 
death,  the  grave,)  "the  Lord  hath  given  me  the  victory — I 
exult;  I  triumph!  Now  I  know  that  it  is  imjyossible  that 
faith  should  not  triumph  over  earth  and  hell" — "Lord  Jesus, 
into  thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit;  I  do  it  with  confidence ; 
I  do  it  with  full  assurance.  I  know  that  thou  wilt  keep  that 
which  I  have  committed  unto  thee!"  We  appeal  to  all  the 
world,  whether  anything  like  this,  anything  that  deserves  so 
much  as  to  be  named  in  comparison,  ever  fell  from  the  lips 
of  an  Infidel.  How  poor,  how  mean,  how  miserable,  does  he 
look,  when  brought  to  the  contrast !  Let  the  reader  review 
again  the  situation  of  Dr.  Finley,  ponder  his  words,  and  mark 
their  spirit;  and  then  let  him  go  back  to  Mr.  Hume's  "diver- 
sion"— to  his  correcting  his  Atheistical  writings  for  a  new 
edition — to  his  "  books  of  amusement" — to  his  "game  of 
whist" — to  his  insipid  raillery  about  Charon  and  his  boat! 
Truly  the  Infidels  have  cause  to  look  big,  and  despise  the 
followers  of  Jesus  Christ!  "  Pray  sir,"  said  a  young  man  to 
the  late  Dr.  Black,  in  the  presence  of  a  juvenile  company  at 
the  Dr.'s  own  table,  "Pray,  sir,  how  did  Mr.  Hume  die?" 
"  Mr.  Hume,"  answered  the  sceptical  chemist,  with  an  air  of 
great  significance,  "  Mr.  Hume  died  as  he  lived,  a  philoso- 
pher."    Dr.  Black  himself  has  aided  Dr.  Smith  in  telling  us 


THE  DEATH-BED.  333 

M-hat  the  death  of  a  philosopher  is.  It  has  taught  us,  if 
nothing  before  did,  that  the  pathetic  exclamation,  "  Let  my 
soul  be  with  the  philosophers,"  belongs  to  one  who  is  a 
stranger  to  truth  and  happiness.  If  they  resemble  Mr.  Hume, 
we  will  most  devoutly  exclaim,  "Furthest  from  them  is 
best."  Let  our  souls  be  with  the  Christians!  with  the 
humble  believers  in  that  Jesus  who  is  "  the  resurrection  and 
the  life."  Let  them  be  with  Samuel  Finley ;  let  them  not  be 
with  David  Hume! 

We  cannot  close  these  strictures  without  again  reminding 
the  reader,  that  no  instance  of  composure  in  death  is  to  be 
found  moi-e  favorable  to  the  Infidel  boast  than  the  instance  of 
Mr.  Hume.  And  yet,  how  jejune  and  forlorn  does  he  appear  in 
comparison  of  Dr.  Finley.  The  latter  longs  for  his  departure, 
"as  the  hireling  pants  for  the  evening  shade;"  and  when  it 
comes,  he  pours  around  him  his  kindly  benedictions;  his  eye 
beams  with  celestial  brilliancy ;  he  shouts.  Salvation  !  and  is 
away  to  "  the  bosom  of  his  Fatlier  and  his  God." 

But  in  the  other  all  is  blank.  No  joy  sparkles  in  his  eye; 
no  hope  swells  his  bosom;  an  unmeaning  smile  is  on  his 
countenance,  and  frigid  ridicule  dishonors  his  lips.  Be  it 
never  forgotten,  that  no  Infidels  die  in  triump)h !  The  utmost 
to  which  they  pretend  is  dying  with  calmness.  Even  this 
rarely  happens;  and,  the  scripture  being  judge,  it  is  a  part  of 
their  accursedness.  It  imparts  the  deepest  horror  to  the 
surprise  of  the  eternal  world.  But,  if  you  reverse  the  picture, 
and  ask  how  many  Infidels  close  their  career  in  anguish,  in 
distraction,  in  a  fearful  looking  for  judgment  and  fiery 
indignation  ivhich  shall  devour  the  adversaries?  how  endless 
is  the  train  of  wretches,  how  piercing  tlieir  cry  !  That  arch- 
blasphemer,  Voltaire,  left  the  world  with  hell  anticipated; 


33 i  THE  DEATH-BED. 

and  we  hear  so  frequently  of  his  disciples  "  going  to  their 
own  place  "  in  a  similar  manner,  that  the  dreadful  narratives 
lose  their  effect  by  repetition.  It  was  quite  recently  that  a 
youth  in  the  state  of  New  York,  who  had  been  debauched  by 
the  ribaldrous  impiety  of  Paine,  yielded  up  the  ghost  with 
dire  imprecations  on  the  hour  when  he  first  saw  an  Infidel 
book,  and  on  the  murderer  who  first  put  it  into  his  hand. 
But  who  ever  heard  of  a  dying  man's  cursing  the  day  in 
which  he  believed  in  Jesus  ?  While  such  an  instance,  we  are 
bold  to  assert,  never  occured,  nothing  is  more  common  than 
the  peaceful  death  of  them  who  have  "tasted  that  the  Lord 
is  gracious."  Tliey  who  see  practical  Christianity  in  those 
retreats  which  the  eye  of  a  profane  philosopher  seldom  pene- 
trates, could  easily  fill  a  long  record  of  dying  beds  softened 
with  that  bland  submission,  and  cheered  with  that  victorious 
hope,  which  threw  so  heavenly  a  lustre  round  the  bed  of  Dr. 
Finley. 

These  things  carry  with  them  their  own  recommendation 
to  the  conscience,  which  is  not  yet  "seared  as  with  a  hot 
iron."  L*  our  pages  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  young,  we 
affectionately  entreat  them  to  "remember  their  Creator  in 
the  days  of  their  yontli;''''  "to  make  their  calling  and  their 
election  sure,"  before  they  be  "hardened  by  the  deceitfulness 
of  sin."  Rich  are  the  tints  of  that  beauty,  and  sweet  the 
/ragrance  of  those  blossoms,  on  which,  in  the  morning  of  life, 
*the  Lord  our  God  sheds  down  the  dews  of  his  blessings.  You 
would  not  wish  to  be  associated  with  Infidels  in  their  death; 
shun  the  contagion  of  their  principles  while  you  are  in  spirits 
and  in  health.  Your  hearts  cannot  but  sigh,  "Let  me  die  the 
death  of  the  righteous,  and  let  my  last  end  bo  like  his." 
Cast  in,  then,  your  lot  with  him;  choose  for  your  own  God 


THE  DEATH-BED. 


335 


the  God  of  Samuel  Finley;  and  like  him,  you  shall  have 
"  hope  in  your  death ;"  like  him,  you  shall  be  had  in  "  ever- 
lasting remembrance,"  when  « the  memory  of  the  wicked 
shall  rot." 


APPENDIX   TO    THE   REVOLUTIONIST. 


Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Thomas  Paine  may  be 
surprised  that  the  author  has  omitted  all  allusion  to  his  pamphlet  attack 
on  Washington.  The  explanation  of  this  is  found  in  the  infamous  cha- 
racter of  that  production,  which  forbids  its  republication,  even  in  what 
are  considered  to  be  complete  editions  of  his  works.  It  is  sufficient  to 
allude  to  it,  as  indicating  that  hate  of  excellence  which  marks  the  lowest 
I'each  of  depravity,  and  which,  when  turned  toward  the  Deity,  so  com- 
pletely inspired  "  The  Age  of  Eeason." 

Yet  deep  as  was  Paine's  hatred  to  God  and  to  the  doctrines  of  his  word, 
he  seems  to  cling  to  one  of  them  with  singular  tenacity,  so  long  as  it 
could  be  turned  to  good  account  by  his  self-complacency.  This  was  the 
doctrine  of  a  Special  Providence.  We  have  alluded  (page  241)  to  our 
view  of  the  object  for  which  God  preserved  the  miserable  man  from  the 
Tribunal  and  the  axe,  and  we  now  give  his  own  aspect  of  the  affair,  ex- 
tracted from  his  "  Letter  to  the  People  of  the  United  States." 

"  I  am  become  so  famous  among  them  that  they  cannot  eat  or  drink 
without  me.  I  serve  them  as  a  standing  dish,  and  they  cannot  make  up 
a  bill  of  fare  if  I  am  not  in  it.  But  there  is  one  dish,  and  that  the 
clioicest  of  all,  they  have  not  yet  presented,  and  it  is  time  they  should — 
they  have  not  yet  accused  Providence  of  Infidellfii — yet,  according  to  their 
out  raff  ecus  piety,  she  must  be  as  bad  as  Thomas  Paine.  She  has  protected 
him  in  all  his  dangers,  patronized  him  in  all  his  undertakings,  encouraged 
him  in  all  his  ways,  and  rewarded  him  at  last  by  bringing  him,  in  safety 
and  in  health,  to  the  PROMISED  LAND.  *  *  *  «  I  was  one  of  the  nine 
members  that  composed  the  first  Committee  of  Constitution.  Six  of  them 
have  been  destroyed.  *  *  *  Ilcrault  Sechelles  was  my  alternate  as  mera- 

15 


338  APPENDIX  TO  THE  EEVOLIITIOXIST. 

her  of  Committee  of  Constitution;  that  is,  he  was  to  supply  my  place  if 
I  had  not  accepted,  or  had  resigned,  being  next  in  number  of  votes  to  me. 
He  was  imprisoned  in  the  Luxembourg  with  me — was  taken  to  the  Tribu- 
nal and  the  guillotine — and  I,  his  principal,  was  left, 

"  There  were  but  two  foreigners  in  the  Convention — Anacharsis  Clootz 
and  myself.  We  were  both  put  out  of  the  Convention  by  the  same  vote, 
arrested  by  the  same  order,  and  carried  to  prison  together,  the  same 
night.     He  was  taken  to  the  guillotine,  and  I  was  left. 

"  Joseph  Lebon,  one  of  the  vilest  characters  that  ever  existed,  and  who 
made  the  streets  of  Arras  run  with  blood,  was  my  alternate  as  Member  of 
the  Convention  for  Calais.  When  I  was  put  out  of  the  Convention  he 
came  and  took  my  place.  When  I  was  hberated  from  prison,  and  voted 
again  into  the  Convention,  he  was  sent  to  the  same  prison  and  took  my 
place  there ;  and  he  went  to  the  guillotine  instead  of  me.  He  supplied  my 
place  all  the  way  through. 

"  One  hundred  and  sixty-eight  persons  were  taken  out  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg in  one  night,  and  a  hundred  and  sixty  of  them  guillotined  the  next 
day,  of  whom  I  now  know  I  was  to  have  been  one.  The  manner  I  es- 
caped that  fate  is  curious,  and  has  all  the  appearance  of  accident.  The 
room  in  which  I  lodged  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  one  of  a  long  range 
of  rooms,  under  a  gallery,  and  the  door  of  it  opened  outward  and  flat 
against  the  wall,  so  that  when  it  was  opened  the  inside  of  the  door  ap'- 
peared  outward.  When  persons,  by  scores  and  hundreds,  were  to  be 
taken  out  of  prison  for  the  guillotine,  it  was  always  done  in  the  night,  and 
those  who  performed  that  office  had  a  private  mark,  by  which  they  knew 
what  rooms  to  go  to,  and  what  number  to  take.  The  door  of  our  room 
was  marked,  unobserved  by  us,  in  chalk ;  but  it  happened,  if  happening 
is  a  proper  word,  that  the  mark  was  put  on  when  the  door  was  open  and 
flat  against  the  wall,  and  thereby  came  on  the  inside  when  we  shut  it  at 
night — and  the  destroying  angel  passed  by.  A  few  days  after  this,  Robes- 
pierre fell." 

We  may  add,  that  six  years  before  the  date  of  this  letter  Paine  ascribed 
his  escape  to  illness;  the  discrepancy  may  be  reconciled  by  supposing 
both  accounts  to  be  true,  and  this  is  our  only  solution  of  it,  unless  we  re- 
ject the  latter  statement  as  an  ingenious  fiction. 


APPENDIX   TO    THE   TRIBUNAL. 


The  following  very  interesting  sketch  of  a  visit  to  the  Conciergerie  is 
from  the  pen  of  Washington  Irving.  It  appears,  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  second  volume  of  "The  Life  and  Letters"  of  that  distinguished  man, 
by  Pierre  M.  Irving — which  is  issued  as  this  book  is  going  to  press.  The 
reader  will  at  once  observe  how  appropriate  it  is  in  this  place  : 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  the  prison  of  Marie  Antoinette.  Under  the 
Palace  of  Justice  is  a  range  of  cavernous  dungeons,  called  the  Concier- 
gerie— the  last  prison  in  which  criminals  are  confined  previous  to  execu- 
tion. We  were  admitted  through  grated  doors,  and  conducted  along 
damp,  dark  passages,  lighted  in  some  places  by  dim  windows,  in  others  by 
lamps.  On  these  passages  opened  the  grates  of  several  dungeons,  in 
which  victims  were  thrown  during  the  Revolution  to  indulge  in  the  horri- 
ble anticipation  of  certain  death.  My  flesh  crept  on  ray  bones  as  I  passed 
through  these  regions  of  despair,  and  fancied  these  dens  peopled  with 
their  wretched  inhabitants.  I  fancied  their  worn  and  wasted  faces  glaring 
through  the  grates  to  catch  if  possible  some  ray  of  hope  or  mitigation  of 
horror ;  but  seeing  nothing  but  the  sentinel  pacing  up  and  down  the  pas- 
sage, or  perhaps  some  predecessor  in  misery  dragged  along  to  execution. 
In  this  were  confined  the  victims  of  Robespierre,  and  afterwards  Robes- 
pierre himself. 

"From  the  corridor  we  were  led  through  a  small  chapel,  into  what  at 
present  forms  a  sacristy,  but  which  was  once  the  dungeon  of  the  unhappy 
Queen  of  France.  It  is  low  and  arched ;  the  walls  of  prodigious  thick- 
ness, lighted  dimly  by  a  small  window.  The  walls  have  been  plastered 
and  altered,  and  the  whole  is  fitted  up  with  an  air  of  decency — nothing 
remains  of  the  old  dungeon  but  the  pavement.     In  one  part  is  a  monu- 


340  APPENDIX  TO  THE  TRIBUNAL. 

iiieiit,  placed  by  Louis  XVIII.,  and  around  the  dungeons  are  paintings 
illustrating  some  of  the  latest  prison  scenes  of  her  unhappy  life.  The 
place  is  shown  where  her  bed  stood,  divided  simply  by  a  screen  from  the 
rest  of  the  dungeon,  in  which  a  guard  of  soldiers  was  constantly  stationed. 
Beside  this  dungeon  is  the  black  hole — I  can  give  it  no  better  term — in 
which  the  Princess  Elisabeth  was  thi-ust  a  few  hours  prior  to  her  execu- 
tion. Never  have  I  felt  my  heart  melting  with  pity  more  than  in  behold- 
ing this  last  abode  of  wretchedness.  What  a  jjlace  for  a  queen,  and  such 
a  queen  ! — one  brought  up  so  delicately — fostered,  admired,  adored." 


READINGS  FROM  THE  MONITEUR. 

"Wlaile  reading  the  Moniteur  for  the  purpose  of  investigating  the 
events  which  have  been  sketched  in  the  foregoing  pages,  the  author 
made  a  series  of  extracts  for  future  reference.  He  has  conchided  to  add 
a  portion  of  these  to  the  second  edition  of  his  volume  ;  for,  although  they 
contain  much  that  is  too  minute  for  the  concise  page  of  history,  yet 
they  throw  light  upon  a  memorable  epoch.  Those  who  are  reading 
any  of  the  standard  histories  of  the  French  Revolution,  will  find  some 
of  its  scenes  illustrated  by  these  clippings  from  its  daily  press.  The 
Moniteur  was  established  in  1789,  and  hence  differs  but  a  year  in  point 
of  age  from  the  London  Times.  Its  commencement  indicates  the  open- 
ing of  a  nouvelle  ordre.  National  affairs  were  in  rapid  advance,  and  de- 
manded progress  in  the  journalism  of  the  day,  particularly  in  reporting 
the  proceedings  of  the  Convention.  The  title  of  the  new  sheet  which 
was  born  amid  this  upheaval,  was  La  Gazette  Universelle  ou  le  Moniteur. 
Its  size  is  that  of  a  small  quarto,  and  it  is  printed  on  coarse  paper  of  a 
dark  and  dingy  color.  The  plan  of  the  journal,  when  first  issued,  is 
shown  by  the  publication  of  a  review  of  the  preceding  events  in  the 
nation's  history,  which  fiUs  one-half  of  an  entire  volume. 

The  contents  of  the  early  issues  of  the  Moniteur  at  first  disappoint  the 
reader.  Instead  of  finding  such  bold  and  fiery  editorials  as  were  then 
exciting  the  Capital,  there  is  a  marked  absence  of  all  independence  of 
opinion  on  any  subject  whatever.  In  other  words,  there  was  no  edito- 
rial in  the  Moniteur  until  after  the  Revolution.  To  think  at  such  a  time 
were  dangerous ;  to  speak,  were  stiU  more  so ;  and  to  speak  to  the 
point  were  the  height  of  temerity.  As  a  proof  of  this,  the  examples  of 
Gorsas  and  of  Durasoi  stand  prominent — the  latter  (editor  of  the  Ga- 
zette) having  been  guillotined  at  an  early  date.  The  wisdom  of  the 
course  pursued  by  the  Moniteur  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  Brissot,  He- 
bert,  Camille  Desmoulins,  and  others,  who  were  editors  as  well  as 
deputies,  perished  on  the  scaffold.  The  first  page  of  the  Moniteur,  day 
after  day,  contains  paragraphs  of  foreign  news  from  Angkttrre,  Les  E'Aits 
Unis,  and  other  lands,  and  also  reports  briefly  the  proceedings  of  the 
Commune  (municipal  council)  of  Taris.     This  body  had  just  been  re-or- 


342  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF'tERROR. 

ganized,  and  the  city  had  been  divided  into  forty-eight  sections  (or 
wards),  each  of  which  chose  three  members.  This  Commune*  was 
chietiy  controlled  by  Chaumette,  Procureur  (Corporation  attorney),  and 
bj'  Hebert,  the  9,Vih- Procureur.  Botli  of  these  men,  together  witli  the 
larger  part  of  the  Commune,  were  subsequently  guillotined,  and  their 
offices  filled  liy  other  of  Robespierre's  instruments.  On  the  second 
page,  the  Moniteur  reports  the  debates  of  the  Convention,  whoso  de- 
tailed proceedings  have  many  points  of  thrilling  interest.  After  this, 
the  popular  societies,  such  as  the  Jacobins  and  Cordeliers,  are  noticed 
at  length,  and  then  come  the  proceedings  of  the  Tribunal,  with  the 
lists  of  the  condemned — all  of  which  are  set  off  by  the  long  array  of 
blazing  theatricals. 

The  various  changes  which  wrought  on  the  face  of  society  are  indi- 
cated by  occasional  advertisements  :  thus  we  note  in  December,  1789, 
the  announcement  of  but  two  theatres,  whose  performances  are  respect- 
ively "Zamor  and  Mirza,"  and  "The  Happy  Shipwreck,"  while  a  vol- 
ume is  advertised  "on  the  cause  of  the  decline  in  the  French  Drama." 
We  may  contrast  this  circumstance  with  the  fact  that  as  the  populace 
became  excited  with  revolutionary  ferment,  there  was  a  steady  increase 
in  the  number  of  theatres,  until  in  1T93  the  column  announces  twelve 
instead  of  two,  with  all  the  varied  attraction  of  drama,  vaudeville, 
opera,  and  high  tragedy. 

Thus  we  have  the  following  histrionic  parade : 

The  AciD^MiE  de  Mcsique,  The  Offering  to  Liberty. 

Theatre  de  l'Opi^ra,  The  Female  Avenger. 

Theatre  de  la  R^publique,         The  Frenchman  m  London. 

Tiiic.\TRB  DE  LA  RUE  Feydeau,      The  Nuns  of  Visitation. 

Theatre  National,  The  Discontented  Couple  {Eimix). 

Theatre  de  la  rue  Louvois,       Supper  with  the  Pope. 

Tni^ATRE  Du  Vaudeville,  The  Divorce. 


♦The  word  CorKmune  is  the  origin  of  the  term  "common  council,"  so  frequently 
api)lii-(l  to  city  jrovemments.  Gaspard  Chaumette,  in  accordance  with  the  fashion  of 
the  day,  assumed  the  title  "  Anaxagoras,"  after  the  ancient  philosopher  of  that  name. 
He  wiis  a  violent  ;incl  radic.il  revolutionist,  who  leaped  at  once  to  extreme  ends,  but 
after  less  than  two  years  of  relentless  sway,  he  shared  the  fate  of  his  victims  ut  the 
Place  de  la  liecolution. 


MARRIAGE  AND  LITERATURE.  343 

Th^atee  du  Palais  des  Varietes,  The  Fool  in  Spite  of  Himself. 

Theatre  du  Lycee  des  Arts,  The  Bearnice  Wedding. 

Theatre  de  la  Nation,  '         Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded. 

The  exhibition  of  The  Divorce,  as  above  stated,  indicates  a  correspond- 
ing performance  in  social  life.  Hence,  about  the  same  time,  we  read  a 
brief  summary  of  marriages,  deaths,  and  divorces — in  none  of  which 
are  the  names  given.  They  are  thus  simply  recorded :  September  12, 
1793,  Marriages  29 — Divorces  8.  September  13,  Marriages  3 — Divorces 
6 ;  while  on  a  previous  date  we  find.  Marriages  7 — Divorces  4. 

The  large  proportion  which  divorce  obtains,  may  be  explained  by  the 
report  on  the  Civil  Code  offered  by  Cambaceres,  which  contains  the  fol- 
lowing rhapsody :  "  Citizens,  you  will  celebrate  the  anniversary  of 
that  day,  forever  memorable,  when  liberty  arose  on  the  ruins  of  tlie 
throne.  Tou  go  to  celebrate  the  eternal  fete  of  the  French  Constitu- 
tion. Nothing  can  disturb  this  august  ceremony,  and  ere  long  you  will 
return  to  your  hearths,  or  will  travel  from  town  to  country  to  bear  our 
new  code  as  the  Palladium  of  the  Repubhc."  This  boasted  code  opens 
with  a  new  law  of  marriage,  thus :  First.  Marriage  is  stated  to  be  an 
agreement  between  whatever  man  or  woman  may  enter  therein  under 
authority  of  the  law  to  live  together,  and  to  rear  the  children  which 
may  be  born  of  their  union.  Second.  Marriage  may  be  dissolved  by  the 
persistent  determination  of  one  of  the  espoused  couple.  Third.  The 
age  required  for  this  condition  is  fifteen  years  for  males,  and  thirteen 
for  females."  We  will  not  burden  the  reader  with  any  further  extracts 
from  this  Palladium,  or  any  report  of  the  debate  wliich  it  called  forth. 
An  extract  of  its  method  of  divorce  might  amuse  one,  but  it  is  hardly 
worth  the  time  and  space  required. 

Literature  is  not  entirely  overlooked  by  the  Moniteur,  for  here  we  have 
notice  of  a  book  entitled  "  Conversation  between  an  Honest  Man  and  a 
Priest,"  with  this  motto:  "  I  am  such  a  man  as  this,  that  nothing  that 
interests  my  equals  can  be  indiflerent  to  me."  The  tone  of  public 
opinion  is  still  further  indicated  by  another  volume  which  receives  the 
following  critical  notice  :  "  General  and  Particular  History  of  Religion 
and  Worship  of  all  Nations  of  the  World,  l)oth  Ancient  and  Modern, 
ornamented  with  more  than  300  plates,  by  the  best  artists  of  Paris :  12 


344  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

vols.  4to.  This  literary  and  typographical  enterprise  is  one  of  the 
finest  and  most  useful  which  has  been  got  up  in  a  long  time.  The  hor- 
rible evils  which  superstition  has  inflicted  and  is  stiU  inflicting  on  man- 
kind win  not  be  radically  cured  until  we  get  knowledge  of  their  source. 
All  religious  errors  are  here  compared  with  respect  to  their  origin,  and 
all  the  absurd  dogmas  which  have  been  propagated  on  the  earth  are 
here  stripped  of  their  illusion  of  false  hope  and  vain  terror.  Citizen 
Fournier  dedicates  this  philosophical  work  to  the  National  Convention, 
which  decrees  honorable  mention  and  a  place  in  its  archives." 

Here  is  a  notice  of  a  volume  which  we  may  mark  as  one  of  the  first 
out-croppings  of  that  SociaUstic  idea  which  afterward  became  so  rife  in 
France  :  "  Essay  on  Human  Support — being  questions  proposed  by  a 
patriotic  society,  the  answers  to  which  I  found  in  papers  of  my  father, 
who  died  in  1751.     Printed  at  expense  of  the  Sans-Culottes." 

Some  other  books  are  also  announced,  which  give  an  idea  of  popular 
literature.  "New  Republican  Spelling-Book,  to  teach  A,  B,  C,  and  to  show 
children  to  speU  almost  without  a  master,  while  amusing  them  by  eighty 
agreeable  pictures." 

"Catechism,  Moral  and  Republican,  for  the  use  of  children:  new 
edition,  with  the  Declaration  of  Rights  and  French  Constitution." 

"  Republican  Thoughts  for  every  day  in  the  year ;  particularly  for  the 
use  of  children."  , 

"  Republican  Alphabet,  to  teach  children  to  spell  and  read;  contain- 
ing the  rights  and  duties  of  men  and  citizens,  followed  by  Republican 
Prayers  and  Maxims." 

Here  is  another  sample  of  revolutionary  literature.  "  The  Triumph  of 
Liberty  and  Equality — Republican  Almanac,  with  Songs  new  and  appro- 
priate to  the  years  1789,  '90,  '91,  and  '92,  by  the  widow  citizen  Ferraud." 
Almanac-making  seems  to  be  a  popular  business,  since  we  have  the 
announcement  of  another  "Republican  Almanac,  for  the  purpose  of 
public  instruction,  prepared  by  Sylvan  Marech;d,  author  of  the  Honest 
Man's  Almanac,  for  sale  by  the  director  of  the  social  circle  at  Paris,  live 
Tludtre  Franfais." 

The  same  author  announces  modestly  as  follows:  "I  had  engaged  to 
commenco  a  course  on  Social  Organization  at  the  Lyceum  on  Sunday,  the 


VICTIMS  OF  THE  TRIBUNAL.  345 

13th,  but  time  and  health  (curious  preventives)  delayed  my  preparation. 
The  course  will  open  on  Sunday,  the  20th,  at  one  o'clock  precisely." 

Public  economy — here  is  a  notice  which  exhibits  a  peculiar  stretch  of 
national  economy.  "  The  National  treasury,  desiring  to  observe  aU  pos- 
sible economy  in  the  expense  of  specie  kegs  for  the  treasury  of  the  army, 
i"--ites  such  coopers  as  choose,  to  leave  their  patterns  with  the  Secretary 
of  the  National  Treasury  before  July  15,  1792." 

But  our  attention  is  soon  distracted  from  books  to  scenes  of  deep  and 
terrible  interest.  The  Moniteur  of  the  30th  September,  1793,  announ- 
ces Le  Tribunal  Exb-aordinaire,  with  its  array  of  Judiciary,  "Hermand, 
President — Dumas,  Vice-President.  Fouquier  Tinville,  public  accuser"  (or 
district-attorney) ;  Fleuriot  Lescot  appears  as  TinviUe's  substitute,  while 
the  names  of  sixteen  Judges  and  sixty  Jurors  are  given  in  complete  de- 
tail. This  tribunal  begins  by  some  eases  in  which  mercy  preponderates 
against  justice.  "October  6,  1793,  Fran9ois  Bourgamot,  notary's  clerk, 
receives  the  lenient  sentence  of  deportation  (or  exile)  for  having  his  vest, 
on  the  tenth  of  August,  the  day  on  which  the  King  fell  studded  with 
fleurs  de  lis,  and  having  exclaimed  that  these  were  the  arms  of  France. 
But  here  is  a  case  of  no  mitigating  circumstances :  Joseph  Laurrait  de 
Montagnac,  recent  noble-colonel,  late  Chevalier  of  St.  Louis,  convicted 
of  having  held  correspondence  with  the  emigrants,  and  other  enemies 
of  the  Republic — this  offence  deserves  death." 

Here  again  the  sentence  is  of  exceeding  moderation ;  "  Marie  Francoise 
Aimee  Rignue,  wife  of  Rohant,  dealer  in  linen,  charged  with  holding  a 
correspondence  witli  the  enemies  of  the  Republic — of  having  said  to 
her  workwomen  that  the  shirts  they  made  were  not  too  good  for  the 
King  of  Prussia — and  to  have  exhibited  a  joy  uncivique  at  the  first  false 
news  of  tlie  faU  of  Valenciennes,  and  to  have  exclaimed  with  lifted 
hands,  '  Lord  I  I  go  to  see  my  husband  again ;  the  Austrians  will  soon 
be  at  Paris,'  was  condemned  to  deportaiion." 

As  we  advance,  the  columns  of  the  Moniteur  become  more  thriUing, 
and  we  confess  a  strange  fascination  as  we  find  our  eye  resting  on  tlie 
report  of  tlie  trial  of  the  unfortunate  Louis.  What  a  spectacle !  a  King 
helpless  as  one  of  his  own  peasant  subjects  1  a  King  humbled  to  impris- 
onment !  a  King  disrobed  and  uncrowned — a  King  suing  for  his  hfe  at 
15=^ 


346  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

the  hands  of  a  relentless  crew  of  enemies  I  a  lamb  begging  mercy  of 
wolves.  Such  is  the  scene  which  opens  before  us.  The  entire  Conven- 
tion is  composed  of  those  who,  as  regards  public  hfe,  are  mere  children, 
but  in  excitement,  in  rhapsody,  in  ultraism  and  in  malignity  are  giants. 

During  the  proceedings  against  the  King  we  find  Vergniaud  ofiiciating 
as  President.  This  fact  shows  that  the  Girondins  stiU  maintained  their 
majority  in  the  Convention.  Let  us  glance  at  some  of  the  expressions 
which  accompany  the  votes  on  this  important  question. 

What  a  marvel  of  gentleness  this  man  must  have  been  I 

Wandeliment.  "  As  a  legislator  I  have  not  received  from  my  constit- 
uents the  right  to  pronounce  in  criminal  matters.  The  mildness  of  those 
manners  in  which  I  have  lived  until  this  day,  forbids  my  voting  in  a 
criminal  matter  either  way." 

A  contrast  to  the  above  is  from  the  voice  of  Camille  Desmoulins. 
"A  King  dead,  as  Manuel  says,  what  is  it  but  one  man  less!  I  vote  for 
his  death,  too  late  perhaps  for  the  honor  of  the  Convention."  (Complaints, 
and  many  demand  that  Camille  be  called  to  order.) 

Here  is  another  embarrassed  voter. 

Noel.  "I  have  the  honor  to  state  that  my  son  was  Grenadier  of  the 
Vosges  battahon.  He  was  slain  on  the  frontier  whUe  resisting  the 
enemies  whom  Louis  is  accused  of  raising  up  against  us.  Louis  is  the 
primary  cause  of  my  son's  death — delicacy  compels  me  to  omit  voting.''^ 

On  the  other  hand,  the  reply  of  such  worthies  as  Poultier,  Billaud 
de  Varennes,  and  Marat  is,  death  luithin  twenty-four  hours. 

Here  is  one  who  confesses  his  unfitness  for  the  duties  of  his  office. 

Lalande.     "Neither  yes  nor  no,  lam  no  judge  whatever." 

A  turn  of  the  dramatic. 

Delahaye.  "  To  put  in  question  if  Louis  is  guilty,  is  to  question  if 
we  are  ourselves.  I  see  traced  on  the  walls  of  Paris,  in  characters  of 
blood,  Louis  is  guilty.     I  vote  yesl" 

Of  the  only  two- foreigners  in  the  Convention,  Thomas  Paine  and  Ana- 
charsis  Clootz,  wo  have  the  following  report.  The  latter,  who  had  con- 
tinually beset  the  public  with  schemes  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  cast  his 
adverse  vote  with  his  stereotyped  expression,  "I  answer  death  pour 
genre  humain."     On  the  other  hand,  Thomas  Paine  voted  for  mercy,  and 


SPEECHES  ON  THE  KING'S  TRIAL.  347 

added  to  this  a  spee.ch  in  defence  of  his  position.  He  eventually  receiv- 
ed the  mercy  which  he  extended  to  the  miserable  King  and  escaped  the 
axe,  while  Clootz  was  guUlotined  within  a  year. 

It  is  worthy  of  note,  that  Paine's  influence  was  felt  among  the  entire 
deputation  from  the  department  which  returned  him.  Thus,  of  eleven 
delegates  from  Calais,  only  four  vote  for  death,  while  seven  vote  for 
mercy.  A  fearful  contrast  to  this  is  shown  in  the  delegation  from  Lyons 
— nine  in  number,  of  which  eight  vote  death.  Is  there  nothing  signifi- 
cant in  the  connection  between  this  and  the  fact  that  the  streets  of  Lyons 
ran  blood  under  revolutionary  measures,  while  Calais  escaped  ? 

Paris  returns  twenty-four  delegates,  twenty -two  of  whom  vote  death, 
and  most  of  whom  were  guillotined  within  eighteen  months. 

Among  these  appear  the  names  of  Danton,  CoUot  D'Herbois,  Billaud 
de  Varennes,  CamiUe  Desmoulius,  Marat,  and  the  two  Robespierres.  Ro- 
bespierre, senior,  opens  the  vote  of  the  delegation  by  a  long  speech, — 
"  the  same  reasons  which  once  led  him  to  oppose  capital  punishmexit  now 
oblige  him  to  adopt  it." 

Billaud  de  Varennes,  Camille  Desmoulins,  Collot  D'Herbois,  and  in  fact 
aU  make  speeches  before  uttering  judgment.  Marat  exclaims,  "  We 
ought  to  purge  Paris.  Imprisonment  or  banishment  would  choke  new- 
born hberty — law,  justice,  and  my  country,  these  are  my  motives  for 
voting  death." 

Robert.  "  I  condemn  the  tyrant  to  death,  and  in  pronouncing  this 
sentence  I  have  but  one  regret,  that  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  condemn 
every  tyrant  to  the  same  punisliment." 

Freron.  "If,  after  having  declared  Louis  guilty  of  high  treason,  we 
fail  to  apply  the  legal  punishment,  the  statue  of  Brutus  ought  to  he  veiled. 
1  liave  pursued  the  tyrant  to  his  palace  and  demanded  his  death." 

Legendre.  "  I  have  since  the  revolution  vowed  the  pursuit  of  tyrants  : 
the  blood  of  the  people  has  flowed.  I  was  one  of  those  who,  on  tlie 
tenth  (of  August),  directed  the  efforts  of  our  citizens  against  tyranny. 
I  vote  for  death." 

Here  is  a  decided  sensation. 

L.  J.  P.  Egalite.  "  Only  engrossed  by  my  duty— convinced  that  all 
those  who  have  attempted,  or  will  attempt  the  sovereignty  of  the  peo- 


8-iS  JOURXALISM  IX  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

pie  deserve  death,  /  vote  for  dcatuy  (Some  uproar  is  heard  in  a  part 
of  tlie  haU.) 

Egalite  (Duke  of  Orleans)  was  kinsman  of  Louis,  and  perished  on  the 
same  spot,  under  Robespierre's  orders,  a  few  months  afterward. 

Twenty-two  pages  of  the  Moniteur  are  occupied  by  these  replies,  and  the 
session,  during  this  thrilling  roll-call,  was  one  of  the  longest  ever  known 
in  any  legislative  body.  As  a  further  sample  of  the  style  of  sentiment, 
we  give  the  vote  of  Seconde.  "  Citizen  legislators!  as  a  man,  as  a  judge, 
as  a  legislator  for  the  safety  of  my  native  land,  for  the  welfare  of  man- 
kind, I  vote  for  the  death  of  Louis,  and  death  in  the  promptest  manner. 
It  is  ridiculous — it  is  absurd  to  wish  to  be  free — to  dare  even  to  con- 
ceive the  thought — when  you  do  not  desire  to  punish  tyrants.  I  will 
say  no  more :  the  rest  of  my  reasons  are  printed  under  my  name  to 
answer  the  nation,  Europe,  and  the  universe  of  my  opinion." 

It  is  a  strange  commentary  on  the  votes  of  tliis  Parisian  delegation, 
that  it  subsequently  laid  out  its  whole  strength  in  sending  one  another 
to  the  scaffold.  Robespierre  sent  Camille  Desmoulins  and  Danton  in 
the  steps  of  Louis,  and  then  was  himself  butchered  on  the  same  scaf- 
fold and  by  the  same  executioner.  However  great  may  be  our  detestation 
of  Paine's  infidelity,  we  cannot  deny  him  the  credit  of  great  moral  cour- 
age in  facing  the  national  hatred  of  the  King.  The  fact  that  he,  a  stran- 
ger, could  oppose  Robespierre,  Danton,  and  their  clique,  not  only  voting, 
but  boldly  arguing  in  defence  of  Louis,  indicates  elements  of  greatness, 
which,  under  better  influences,  might  have  made  him  an  ornament  to 
his  race. 

Marat  interposes  a  burst  thus : 

"I  hold  that  Tliomas  Paine  ought  not  to  vote  on  this  question ;  being 
a  Quaker,  his  religious  principles  are  opposed  to  the  death-penalty." 
(Complaints  and  cries  of  order.) 

Extract  from  Paine's  speech,  translated  from  English  into  French, 
and  read  from  the  Tribune  by  the  Secretary : 

"France  has  now  but  a  single  ally,  the  United  States  of  America. 
But  it  happens,  unfortunately,  that  the  very  person  under  consideration  is 
regarded  in  the  United  States  as  their  liest  friend — as  one  who  procured 
their  liberty.     I  can  assure  you  that  his  execution  will  cause  a  universal 


SPEECH  OF  THOMAS  PAINE.  349 

sorrow,  and  it  is  in  your  power  to  prevent  this  blow  to  your  friends.  If 
I  could  speak  French,  I  would  descend  to  your  bar,  and  in  tlie  name  of 
all  my  American  brothers,  I  would  present  a  petition  for  Louis's  re- 
prieve."    (Groans  in  the  back  part  of  the  room.) 

Thuriot.     "This  is  not  tlie  language  of  Thomas  Paine." 

Marat  ascends  the  Tribune  and  interrogates  Paine.  He  then  de- 
scends from  the  Tribune  and  addresses  the  Assemblj' :  "  I  denounce  the 
interpreter,  and  I  hold  that  this  is  not  the  opinion  of  Thomas  Paine ;  it 
is  a  vile  and  faithless  translation." 

The  Secretary  continues  reading :  "Tour  Executive  Council  is  about 
to  nominate  an  ambassador  to  the  United  States.  Nothing  would  be 
more  agreeable  for  your  allies,  should  he  be  able  to  say,  that  in  consider- 
ation of  the  part  which  Louis  Capet  bore  in  the  American  Revolution, 
and  the  grief  which  the  American  people  would  feel  in  his  execution, 
you  have  remitted  the  penalty  of  death.  Oh,  citizens,  give  not  the  des- 
pot of  England  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  man  mount  the  scaffold,  who 
aided  my  dear  American  brothers  to  break  their  fetters!" 

The  King,  having  been  condemned,  makes  his  will,  from  which  we 
quote  the  following  touching  extract : 

"  I  beg  my  wife  to  pardon  me  aU  the  evils  which  she  has  suffered 
througli  me,  and  the  disappointments  which  I  have  occasioned  her,  for  if 
she  should  reproach  herself  with  any  thing,  slie  must  be  aware  tliat  I 
have  nothing  against  her. 

"  I  command  my  children  most  earnestly,  that  after  what  they  owe  to 
God,  whicli  should  precede  aU  things,  they  should  remain  united,  sub- 
missive, and  obedient  to  their  mother,  and  mindful  of  all  the  cares  and 
pains  which  she  has  suffered  on  tlieir  account.  I  enjoin  upon  my  son 
that,  should  he  be  so  unfortunate  as  tohecome  a  Z^j/ir/ (the  italics  are  Louis's), 
he  consider  that  he  owes  all  things  to  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
and  that  he  ought  to  bury  all  hate  and  resentment." 

Quite  remarkably,  one  of  those  fierce  Jacobins,  who  sent  Louis  to  the 
scaffold,  preceded  him  to  the  judgment  of  the  world  to  come.  Louis  was 
beheaded  on  Monday,  but  on  Sunday  La  Pelletier  San  Fargeau  was  stab- 
bed at  a  Cafe  by  a  soldier  named  Paris,  who  made  his  escape,  but  after- 
ward committed  suicide.     Tlie  murdered  Deputy  receives,  on  motion  of 


350  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OP  TERROR. 

Robespierre,  the  honors  of  the  Pantheon,  while  the  King's  corpse  is 
buried  in  disgrace.     Let  us  look  at  these  two  pictures. 

"Monday,  the  2 1st  (January,  1793),  was  the  day  fixed  for  the  e.xecution 
of  the  King.  Hardly  had  they  signified  to  him  the  proclamation  of  the 
Executive  Council  relative  to  his  death,  when  he  demanded  to  speak 
with  his  family.  His  wife,  his  sister,  and  his  children  came  to  his  room. 
In  the  morning  Louis  asked  for  a  pair  of  scissors  to  cut  oO'  liis  hair — 
they  wore  refused;  when  they  removed  his  knife,  he  said,  'Do  they 
tliink  me  so  base  as  to  destroy  myself?'  The  commandant  general 
(Santerre)  and  the  commissioner  of  the  Tribune,  go  up  to  Louis's  apart- 
ment at  half-past  eight ;  the  former  cxhiliits  the  order  which  he  has  re- 
ceived to  conduct  him  to  execution.  Louis  requests  three  minutes  to 
speak  to  his  confessor,  which  is  granted.  He  then  says  to  Santerre,  '  I 
am  ready,  let  us  marcli  on.'  As  they  go  out  he  beseeches  the  municipal 
officers  to  recommend  to  the  Commune  tliose  ANho  have  been  in  his  ser- 
vice. He  then  enters  a  carriage  containing  his  confessor  and  two  officers. 
The  cortege  has  proceeded  up  the  Boulevard  to  the  place  of  execution. 
The  greatest  silence  prevails.  Louis  says  his  dying  prayers.  At  ten 
minutes  past  ten  he  arrives  at  the  Place  do  la  Revolution.  He  is  dis- 
robed, and  ascends  with  a  bold  step^  and  advances  to  the  extreme  left 
of  the  scaflbld.  Here  he  exclaims,  in  a  firm  voice,  '  Frenchmen,  I  die 
innocent.  I  pardon  all  my  enemies,  and  I  desire  that  my  death  may  be 
of  benefit  to  the  people.'  He  appears  desirous  of  saying  more,  when 
Santerre  orders  the  executioner  to  do  his  duty.  The  head  of  Louis  falls 
at  twenty  miimtes  after  ten.  It  is  shown  to  the  people ;  immediately  a 
thousand  shouts,  '  Vive  la  nation !  Vive  la  Bepiibliqtie  Fran^aise !'  The 
body  is  borne  to  the  Church  de  la  Madelaine,  where  it  is  buried  be- 
tween those  who  perished  the  day  of  his  marriage,  and  the  Swiss,  who 
were  massacred  on  the  tenth  of  August ;  his  grave  is  twelve  feet  deep ; 
it  has  been  filled  with  lime." 

So  much  for  the  King ;  now  for  the  Jacobin. 

"  The  funeral  pomp  of  La  Pelletier  San  Fargeau  was  celebrated  on 
Thursday  with  all  the  eclat  that  the  severity  of  the  weather  permitted; 
but  with  such  an  overflowing  as  to  make  it,  perhaps,  the  happiest  day 
of  the  year.     At  six  o'clock,  a.  m.,  tlie  couch  of  death  was  placed  on 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  JACOBIN.  351 

tho  pedestal  once  occupied  by  the  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XIV.,  for- 
merly Place  Vendome,  now  Place  des  Piques  (Place  of  I'ikes).  On  the 
balustrade  were  fixed  candelabra  d  Vantique.  The  corpse  was  exposed 
on  the  bed,  with  clots  of  blood  and  the  weapon  by  which  he  fell.  He 
was  naked  to  the  middle,  where  could  be  seen  a  large  and  deep  wound. 
The  bed,  the  wound,  and  the  blood  were  the  most  aflecting  part  of  this 
grand  spectacle.  As  the  members  of  the  Convention  form  the  ccyrttge,  a 
dirge  is  heard.  Like  most  of  the  music  of  our  revolutionary  fetes,  it  was 
composed  by  citizen  Goffe.  The  president  (Vergniaud),  preceded  by  the 
ushers  of  the  Convention  and  the  national  music,  passes  around  the  monu- 
ment and  mounts  the  pedestal,  in  order  to  place  on  the  dead  man's  head 
a  civic  crown.  Meanwhile  one  of  the  Fedires  is  pronouncing  a  discourse. 
This  being  done,  the  cortege  proceeds  in  the  following  order :  Detach- 
ment of  cavalry ;  artillerists  without  guns ;  music,  muffled  drums ;  ban- 
ners inscribed  with  the  decree  of  the  Convention,  which  orders  La  Pelle- 
tier  to  the  Pantheon ;  Commissary  of  Police ;  Justices  of  the  Peace ; 
President  and  Commissary  of  the  Section;  the  Criminal  Tribunal;  the 
six  tribunals  of  the  departments ;  the  municipality  of  Paris ;  the  fasces 
of  the  eighty -four  departments,  borne  by  the  Federes ;  figure  of  Liberty 
borne  by  citizens ;  the  bloody  garments  borne  on  a  pike,  with  garlands 
of  oak  and  cypress ;  National  Convention  in  double  columns,  two  by 
two,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  borne  a  banner  inscribed  with  Le  Pelle- 
tier's  last  words ;  the  body,  borne  by  citizens,  just  as  it  was  exposed  in 
the  '  Place  des  Piques;'  cannoniers,  with  bare  arms  and  drawn  swords; 
Band  of  the  National  Guard,  playing  dirges ;  family  of  the  deceased ; 
group  of  mothers  conducting  her  children ;  detachment  of  Guard ;  muf- 
fled drums  beating ;  volunteers,  with  twenty-four  standards ;  muffled 
drums;  Popular  societies;  armed  Federes ;  monuteA  trumpeters.  Citi- 
zens, armed  with  pikes,  formed  a  barrier  on  each  side  of  the  column — 
their  pikes  being  held  horizontally,  in  both  hands,  resting  on  the  thigh. 
In  this  order  the  cortege  passes  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  the  Pont  Neuf 
Fosse  St.  Germain  de  la  Liberte  (late  Fosse  du  Prince),  Les  rues  d'Enfer, 
and  the  Pantheon  place.  Arriving  here,  the  corpse  was  placed  on  the 
couch  prepared  for  it.  The  National  Convention  ranges  round ;  the 
band  executes  a  superb  sacred  chorus ;  ^  La   Pclletier's  brother  pro- 


352  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

nounces  a  discourse;  the  representatives  of  the  people  approach  the 
corpse,  promise  mutual  union,  and  swear  the  safety  of  their  country,  and 
the  ceremony  terminates  by  a  grand  chorus  to  Liberty." 

Such  is  the  diHerence  between  the  burial  of  the  King  and  that  of  the 
Sans.Culotte. 

Succeeding  this  solemn  pomp  we  have  a  scene  of  diflorent  character, 
yet  one  equally  indicative  of  the  excited  condition  of  the  pubhc  mind : 
"  The  tree  of  Erateruity  was  planted  on  the  27th  (January,  1793),  with 
the  mirth  proper  to  such  a/efe.  Maure,  the  oldest  member  of  the  Na- 
tional Convention,  was  present ;  and  after  the  ground  had  been  broken 
for  this  symbol  of  brotherly  union,  he  spoke  as  foUows:  '  Citizens  of 
Paris,  Fidtres  of  the  eighty-four  departments — this  is  the  place  wliero 
you  have  poured  out  your  blood ;  and  where  your  brothers  died  for 
hberty  and  equahty  1  Swear,  my  friends,  to  maintain,  at  the  perU  of 
your  hves,  Liberty,  Equality,  and  the  Indivisibility  of  the  Repubhcl' 
The  speech  was  enthusiasticaUy  received,  after  which  '  la  Carmagnole' 
was  performed  by  the  band,  and  then  '  Cairo,'  which  so  completely 
electrified  the  hearers  that  they  seized  one  another  by  the  hand  and  be- 
gan to  dance.  The  municipality  itself  was  included,  and,  with  the  Mayor 
at  its  head,  danced  equally  with  the  rest.  These  roundelays  succeeded 
each  other  until  eight  o'clock.  Then  a  solemn  scene,  but  one  important 
to  the  pubhc  safety  and  tranquillity,  foUows  the  expansive  gayety  which 
filled  the  Place  de  la  Fraternite  (formerly  Place  du  Carrousel).  Sud- 
denl}"^  ten  thousand  men,  cavalry  and  infantry,  surround  the  Tuileries. 
No  one  is  allowed  to  go  out,  excepting  such  as  have  cartes  de  securite. 
Those  who  are  suspected  are  arrested.  The  search  continues  until  four 
in  the  morning.  We  have  not  the  details  of  the  captures,  but  since  the 
last  revolution  this  place  has  boon  the  resort  of  all  classes  of  maiuais 
sujeU,  and  we  are  assured  that  the  committee  of  i^ubhc  security  has, 
within  a  few  da^'s,  received  some  important  information.  As  for  the 
rest,  this  expedition  was  conducted  with  the  greatest  preoision." 

State  of  society  in  Paris,   extracted  by  the  Monltcur  from  Nicole's 
journal: 

"It  is  useless  to  dissemble;  Paris   is   sunk   in   a   stupor.      'Dumb 
prief,'  for  we  quote  an  expression  from  Tacitus,  walks  about  the  streets; 


MARAT  ON  THE  FLOOR.  S53 

and  terror,  such  as  crushes  the  utterance  of  our  opinions,  is  engraven 
on  the  countenances  of  our  citizens.  The  King  is  dead ;  but  is  anarchy 
destroyed ?  Are  the  factions  brought  down?  Is  the  safety  of  individ- 
uals respected?  Is  the  assassin,  who  would  stab  me,  gyved?  Alas, 
emigration  never  was  more  active  ;  it  is  becoming,  indeed,  fearful.  You 
do  not  know  that  the  Committee  of  Surveillance  has  been  revived,  and 
that  the  Hsts  of  its  members  are  polluted  by  such  names  as  Bazire,  Cha- 
bot,  and  other  bloody  men,  who  may  in  a  moment  dispose,  like  sove- 
reigns, of  tlie  reputations,  the  fortunes,  and  the  lives  of  our  citizens.  It 
is  the  Venetian  Council  of  Ten.  They  have  only  to  say  poniard  him, 
and  he  is  poniarded." 

Nicole  narrowly  escaped  punishment  for  this  statement.  Here  is  an 
episode  of  fearful  interest.  What  a  scene  must  this  have  been,  where 
five  or  six  hundred  delegates  are  gathered  promisouously  into  a  conven- 
tion, and  called  to  duties  for  which  they  have  no  preparation,  and  swept 
by  passions  of  whose  power  they  had  little  dreamed.  How  absurd  is  the 
idea  that  this  rabble  rout  can  fulfil  legislative  requirements,  or  under- 
stand the  sway  of  empire  I  It  is  a  repetition  of  the  old  fable.  Phaeton 
and  the  horses  of  the  sun.  We  find  the  Girondins,  who  are  mentioned 
an  on  the  right  hand,  endeavoring  to  crush  their  foes,  the  fountain,  one 
by  one.  They  have  singled  out  Marat,  and  have  sought  to  identify  him 
with  the  recent  riots  in  Paris.  Marat's  bitterness  of  sarcasm,  and  his 
fierce  and  murderous  enmity,  never  were  more  powerfully  developed 
than  in  this  whirlwind  of  words  and  passions,  which  we  cannot  dignify 
with  the  term  debate.  Marat  msists  on  having  the  floor.  Addressing 
himself  to  some  members  on  the  right  hand,  who  interrupted  him,  he 
exclaims,  "  Hush,  ye  wretches !  let  the  patriot  speak.  Hush,  ye  Coun- 
ter-Revolutionists 1"  Then  addressing  himself  to  those  on  the  right 
(the  Girondins),  who  interrupted  him,  "  Te  are  blackguards,  aristocrats, 
and  knaves."     (Long  complaints  and  groans.) 

Salles.  "I  have  nothing  to  add  to  the  excellent  reasons  wbich  Bar- 
rere  has  stated,  in  order  to  prove  that  the  authors  and  instigators  of 
these  troubles  ought  to  be  ferreted  out.  I  now  only  proceed  to  denounce 
one  of  these :  it  is  Marat.  Behold  what  Marat  wrote  yesterday,  '  When 
the  worthless  agents  of  the  people  encourage  crime  ^N-ith  impunity,  we 


354  JOURXALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

need  not  wonder  that  the  people  are  driven  to  despair.'  In  all  countries 
■wliere  the  rights  of  the  people  are  not  merely  empty  names,  the  pillage  of 
those  storehouses,  at  wliose  doors  oue  finds  the  speculators,  would  put  an 
end  to  aU  such  malversatious."  (Almost  the  whole  Assembly  in  confusion.) 

Many  voices.  "  The  vote  of  accusation." 

Marat,  darting  {s'elance)  into  the  Tribune — "  The  popular  movements 
which  took  place  jesterday  in  Paris  are  the  work  of  this  faction  (point- 
ing to  the  right).  It  is  this  which  has  sent  to  the  Sections  emissaries  to 
foment  disturbances.  Tou  have  seen,  within  five  or  six  days,  seditious 
persons  coming  here  to  demand  of  you  disastrous  measures,  and,  when 
p.itriots  would  desire  to  denounce  these  base  intrigues,  have  stopped 
them.  And  now,  because,  in  the  indignation  of  my  heart,  I  have  said 
that  they  ought  to  pillage  the  speculators'  warehouses,  and  arrest  tlie 
warehousemen,  as  the  only  means  of  saving  the  people  (fresh  expression 
of  horror),  they  have  the  audacity  to  demand  against  me  the  decree  of 
accusation." 

A  great  number  of  voices — "  The  decree  ;  let  us  have  a  vote." 

Bancol.  "  I  demand  that  Marat  be  not  allowed  to  depart  before  the 
decree  of  accusation  be  carried." 

Marut  descends  from  the  Tribune  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  and  is  heard 
to  utter  these  words:   "The  hogs — the  idiots!" 

Lehardy.  "  It  is  time  to  find  out  whether  one-half  of  the  Convention 
be  composed  of  villains ;  or  if  Marat  be  not  guilty  of  attacking  every  day 
the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  of  whom  he  calls  himself  the  friend." 

Marat.  "  I  demand  that  they  send  to  the  madliouse  those  statesmen 
who  have  provoked  the  decree  of  accusation." 

Thomas.   "  SUence,  thou  idiot."     (Murmurs  and  complaints.) 

The  President,  addressing  the  party  on  the  right  (the  Girondins), — 
"  You  unperil  pul^lic  affairs  by  your  complaints." 

Many  members  suddenly  reply — "It  is  yourself  who  murder  the  coun- 
try by  your  partiaUty." 

Penniers.  "I  demand  that  Marat  be  declared  insane  ;  and  that  he  bo 
locked  up  at  Charlemont  for  the  public  good ;  and  that  he  bo  not  set  at 
liberty  until  after  the  close  of  the  Revolution."  (Complaints  from  tho 
kfi — the  Mountain.) 


WAR  IN  THE  CONVENTION.  355 

Salles.  "  I  demand— " 

Many  voices.  "  The  discussion  is  closed."   (Complaints  recommenced.) 

Bancol.  "I  have  the  floor." 

Many  voices.  "  The  discussion  is  closed." 

Bancol.  "  I  demand  that,  following  in  this  matter  the  custom  of  the 
American  Constitution,  we  decree  by  a  two-third  vote,  first,  that  Marat 
be  expelled  untU.  we  decide  his  condition ;  second,  that  he  be  locked  up 
until  we  learn  whether  he  be  insane  or  not." 

Collot.  "I  demand  that  Bancol  himself  be  declared  insane  for  having 
proposed  to  us  to  decide  according  to  the  American  Constitution." 

Bancol.   "I  demand,  thirdly — " 

Many  voices — "  The  vote  on  Barrere's  question." 

Bancol.  "I  demand  that  it  be  certified  by  physicians." 

Therion.  "What  a  madman  Bancol  is !" 

Bancol.  "I  demand  that  Marat  be  locked  up  as  a  dangerous  lunatic; 
I  demand  that  the  Convention  name  a  committee  to  examine  his  papers." 

Tallien.  "  I  demand  the  floor  against  the  decree  of  accusation." 

Bazine.   "It  is  a  counter-revolutionary  decree  1" 

Tallien,  with  nervous  vehemence,  demands  to  oppose  it.  Many  voices 
cry  out,  "  You  have  not  the  floor." 

Tallien.  "I  demand  the  floor — I  have  a  right  to  it,  and  (striking  his 
hand  on  the  Tribune)  I  will  have  it — I  will  speak!" 

The  influence  which  the  Sections  of  Paris  had  on  the  Convention  is 
shown  by  the  following  extracts:  "A  deputation  of  the  Section  du  Pan- 
theon appears  at  the  bar  and  says  :  'As  soon  as  we  had  a  quorum  a  citizen 
exclaimed,  Citizens,  we  are  threatened  by  a  dictator.'  In  an  instant  the 
Assembly  was  aroused  by  a  sensation  of  horror,  and  it  swore  unanimous- 
ly to  poniard  every  Dictator,  Protector,  Tribune,  Triumvir,  Regulator,  or 
all  other  who  seek  to  destroy  the  sovereignty  of  the  people.  Let  him 
only  appear,  and  the  dagger  is  sharpened."  (Great  applause  in  the  Con- 
vention.) 

The  President's  reply : — "  Citizens,  the  applause  you  have  heard  proves 
to  you  that  aU  good  citizens  are  penetrated  by  the  same  sentiments  as 
yourselves.  Continue  with  courage  1  Banish  from  your  midst,  if  per- 
chance you  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  have,  any  who  preach  anarchy  and 


356  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

assassination.  If  all  the  Sections  follow  your  example,  as  no  doubt  they 
will,  Paris  will  assume  an  imposing  attitude.  The  Convention  thanks  the 
Section  du  Pantheon  and  invites  you  to  its  sitting." 

Santerre  reports  occasional  troubles  to  the  Convention.  "Some  per- 
sons bear  on  the  hat-button  the  word  Univers,  And  a  sword  in  the  middle ; 
others  have  an  L  in  the  middle.  Yesterday,  however,  was  passed  quite 
tranquil.  That,  in  the  mean  time,  there  was  a  crowd  of  agitators  about 
the  Hall  of  the  Convention.  He  exhorts  the  citizens  to  union,  and  to 
the  greatest  watchfulness  and  promptness  of  service." 

Trouble  among  the  Bakers.  "  The  Consul-General  has  ordered  that 
the  forty-eight  Sections  seek  out  the  bakers  who  sell  bread  higher  than 
three  sous  per  pound,  and  have  them  punished  according  to  the  rules. 
Marchaud,  a  baker — Section  of  Arsis, — troubled  the  Consul's  delibera- 
tion in  a  most  indecent  manner.  Summoned  to  explain  himself,  he  gave 
no  satisfactory  reason.  The  Mayor  reproached  his  bad  faith.  The 
Consul  ordered  him  to  be  detained." 

More  deputations  at  the  Convention.  "The  deputation  of  the  Society 
of  the  Defenders  of  the  Republic,  invites  the  Convention  to  attend  Sun- 
day (March  17)  at  the  place  of  reunion,  where  the  Electoral  Corps  ;uid 
the  patriotic  societies  are  to  repair  in  order  to  give  the  fraternal  kiss. 
Ordered,  that  the  Electoral  Corps,  the  forty -eight  Sections,  and  the  pat- 
riotic societies  be  invited  to  attend." 

Again.  "A  deputation  of  the  Section  de  la  Reunion,  admitted  to  the 
bar,  demand  the  ratification  by  the  Convention  of  ah  order  taken  by  the 
Section,  to  the  eflfect  to  disarm  all  the  late  nobles  and  suspected  men 
found  in  the  Section." 

Many  members  put  this  order  in  motion. 

Gensieux.  "I  demand  that  the  measure  be  general  through  all  the 
Republic." 

Here  is  a  new  scene  of  terror  in  the  Convention.  Marat  has  found  a 
fresh  matter  of  sensation. 

"I  have  to  reveal  to  you  horrible  plottings.  You  here  behold  a  series 
of  general  conspiracies  to  rend  the  country — conspiracies  of  which 
treacherous  citizens  are  the  nurses,  and  which  liave  been  hatched  in  the 
Section  Poissouniere,  against  which  I  h;ivo  often  t.ikon  a  stand.     These 


A  CONJUROR'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  357 

citizens  ought  not  only  to  be  put  in  arrest,  but  should  bo  forced  to  de- 
clare their  accomplices." 

A  voice.     "Thou  art  one  1"     (Complaints.) 

Marat.  "  The  general  conspiracy  to  destroy  the  public  liberty  has  been 
hatched  in  that  very  Section.  It  commenced  by  the  petition  on  grain, 
and  bears  successively  on  different  objects.  The  alarming  difficulties 
which  have  taken  place  in  Paris  prove  this.  It  is  some  days  since  its 
agents  excited  the  people  to  assassination,  no  doubt  impelled  by  the 
counter-revolutionary  Deputies.  I  demand  that  the  petitioner  read  the  ar- 
ticle in  his  petition  in  which  he  demands  the  head  of  Gensonne,  of  A"er- 
gniaud,  and  of  Guadet,  an  atrocious  crime  which  tends  to  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Conrention  and  the  loss  of  the  country.  As  for  myself,  I  stand 
in  the  baud  which  resists  assassins.  I  belong  to  the  Society  of  Corde- 
liers; there  I  preach  peace,  and  I  have  confounded  those  speakers  who 
are  subsidized  by  the  aristocracy." 

It  is  very  easy  to  see  that  Marat's  allusion  to  a  demand  for  the  heads  of 
some  of  the  Girondists,  and  his  condemnation  of  it,  were  simply  artifices 
to  suggest  their  death,  and  to  open  the  way  for  it  as  soon  as  it  should 
be  practicable. 

A  contrast  to  this  scene  of  terror  is  found  in  the  following  advertise- 
ment: "Amusing  Philosophy  and  Games  of  Skill.  The  citizen  Perrin, 
mechanical  engineer  and  demonstrator  of  amusing  philosophy,  will  give 
to-day  at  6  o'clock,  at  the  Theatre  of  the  late  citizen  Moreau,  The  En- 
chanted Sultan — the  inkstand  perfectly  insulated  which  furnished  ink  of 
all  colors  as  caUed  for.  The  grand  game  of  the  dove,  which  brings  back 
a  ring  put  into  a  pistol  and  fired  out  of  the  window.  The  incomprehen- 
sible clock.  The  sympathetic  mUl.  The  flying  cards.  The  enchanted 
game  of  Automaton  Chasseurs,  which  send  an  arrow  to  a  mark,  and  which 
divine  one's  thoughts,  and  a  quantity  of  other  new  games." 

State  of  Paris,  31st  March,  1793.  "At  7  o'clock  the  Mayor  read  a 
request  from  the  Minister  of  Justice  (D ANTON)  to  install  the  Extraor- 
dinary Tribunal  in  the  hall  of  the  recent  Palace  of  Justice.  Many  citi- 
zens have  been  arrested  because  they  have  no  'cartes  de  securiti.'  All 
reports  returned  this  morning  indicate  tranquillity.  Paris  is  calm,  and  all 
citizens  concur  with  emulation  in  the  exeeution  of  the  laws. 


358  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

"In  the  domiciliary  visits  there  has  been  arrested  a  shoemaker  named 
Billou,  at  whose  house  was  found  a  quantity  of  bread  in  slices  and  dried 
by  the  fire;  also  the  chalices,  the  pyx.  the  host,  chasubles,  surplices,  and 
dresses  of  Chartrettx.  There  was  also  found  at  the  same  shoemaker's  a 
correspondence  with  the  aristocrats." 

In  Convention  Marat  has  found  another  conspiracy. 

Marat.  "I  demand  the  floor  for  a  motion  of  order.  Citizens  1  I  de- 
mand calm  and  close  attention.  In  what  condition  does  your  committee 
of  defence  find  itself,  and  who  appears  to  influence  the  faction  ?"  Brissot, 
Guadei.  (Complaints — many  voices,  "  It 's  not  so.")  "  Your  committee  of 
general  defence,  which  appears  to  influence  these  men.  and  to  which  we 
owe  the  existing  war."  (Complaints  continue  on  all  parts  of  the  hall.) 
"Your  committee,  I  say,  proceeds  to  arrest  three  commissioners  of  exec- 
utive council,  who  have  in  their  hands  the  proof  of  a  conspiracy  hatch- 
ed against  liberty  by  a  traitor  general.  I  demand  that  these  three  com- 
missioners be  brought  to  our  bar  to  reveal  what  they  know." 

Boileau.     "Marat  would  only  pronounce  an  order  for  proscription." 

Another  scene  in  Convention. 

"Danton  returns  to  his  place.  All  the  extreme  left  (the  Mountain) 
arise  and  invite  him  to  return  to  the  Tribune  in  order  to  be  heard.  (Pro- 
longed applause.)  Danton  springs  into  the  Tribune.  The  applause  con- 
tinues in  a  great  part  of  the  Assembly.  'I  ought  to  commence  by  ren- 
dering homage  to  you,  as  indeed  the  friends  of  the  people's  safety. 
Citizens,  who  have  seats  on  this  mountain  (turning  toward  the  amphi- 
theatre on  the  left  hand),  you  have  judged  me  well.  I  have  believed  a 
long  time  that  such  was  the  impetuosity  of  my  character  that  I  must 
use  that  moderation  which  the  times  demand.  You  accuse  me  of  weak- 
ness,— you  have  reason.  I  confess  this  before  all  France.  We  should 
denounce  those  who,  by  wickedness  or  ignorance,  have  constantly  de- 
Eired  that  the  tyrant  should  escape  the  sword  of  the  law.  (A  great 
many  members  rise  up  and  cry  yes  I  yesl  and  point  out  the  members  on 
the  right  hand.  Noise  and  violent  recriminations  arise  in  that  neighbor- 
hood.) Indeed,  these  are  the  very  men.  (Noise  at  the  riglit  hand  con- 
tinues— the  orator  addresses  his  interrupters.)  You  answer  me  I  You 
answer  me  1    Citizens,  these  are  the  same  men  who  yesterday  took  the 


WAR  IN  THE  CONVENTION.  359 

insolent  attitude  of  denouncers.'  (Grandneuve  interrupts,  and  the  out- 
cries of  a  great  part  of  the  assembly  drown  his  voice.)" 

Duhem.  "Yes,  'tis  true,  they  have  conspired  at  Roland's.  I  know  the 
names  of  the  conspirators!" 

Maure.     "It  is  Barbaroux — it  is  Brissot — it  is  Guadet." 

Dan  ton.  "Do  you  wish  a  king?  Once  more  the  greatest  truth,  the 
greatest  moral  probabilities  remain  for  the  nations.  It  is  only  those  who 
have  the  stupidity,  the  meanness  to  wish  a  king,  who  could  suspect 
any  one  of  a  desire  to  re-establish  a  throne.  It  is  only  those  who 
wish  to  punish  Paris  for  its  voisi7is  by  arming  the  departments  against 
it.  (A  great  many  rise  and  point  out  the  party  on  the  right.)  Yes,  yes, 
they  desire  it.  These  are  they  who  ate  clandestine  suppers  with  Du- 
mouriez  when  he  was  at  Paris." 

Marat.  "Lasource  was  there!  Lasource  was  there!  Oh,  I  denounce 
all  traitors!" 

Danton.  "Yes!  they  are  the  sole  accomplices  in  the  conspiracy. 
(Brisk  applause  on  the  left)  It  is  me  whom  they  accuse — myself!  I  fear 
nothing  of  Dumouriez.  Let  Dumouriez  produce  a  single  hne  from  me, 
which  can  give  a  shadow  of  inculpation,  and  /  am  willing  to  lose  my 
head." 

Marat.  "He  has  letters  from  Gensonne.  It  is  Gensonne  who  was 
in  intimate  relation  witli  Dumouriez  (turning  to  the  right).  You,  you 
doii't  desire  to  stab  the  country.''^  (Sarcastically.) 

Danton.     "  Do  you  wish  me  to  say  whom  I  mean?" 

Many  voices.     "Yes!  Yes!" 

Danton.  "  Listen!"  (Marat,  turning  to  the  party  on  tlie  right,  exclaims, 
"Listen!")  "Do  you  wish  to  know  one  word  which  answers  for  all?" 

Many  voices.     "Yes!  Yes!" 

Danton.  "  Very  weU !  I  believe  there  is  no  more  truce  between  the 
Mountain  and  those  Sceterats*  who,  wishing  to  save  the  King,  have  slan- 
dered us  in  France."  (A  great  number  on  the  left  hand  rise  with  applause. 
Many  voices  are  heard,  "  We  will  save  our  country.") 

*The  word  SaeUrat  is  so  common  in  the  proceedings  of  the  Convention  that  we 
prefer  it  to  any  translation.  It  may  be  rendered  '^miscreant,"  '•  scoundrel,"' •'villain," 
or  almost  any  thing  that  is  bad. 


360  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

"Danton  descends  the  Tribune  in  the  midst  of  the  most  exciting  ap- 
plause— many  members  on  the  left  rush  forward  to  embrace  him." 

A  little  further  on  we  find  that  "  the  Section  des  Sans-Culottes  has 
issued  an  order  by  which  it  invites  the  National  Convention  to  decree 
that  the  Judges  (we  presume  of  the  Tribunal)  be  submitted  to  the  puri- 
fying scrutiny  of  the  Sections."  What  that  purifying  influence  must  be  is 
suggested  by  the  following  fresh  attack  on  the  Girondins. 

A  deputation  of  the  Section  de  Bonne  Nouvelle  (good  news)  is  intro- 
duced to  the  Convention.     The  orator  speaks  as  follows : 

"The  Section  de  Bonne  Nouvelle  has  sent  us  to  you  to  demand  that 
you  make  a  close  examination  into  the  treason  of  the  infamous  Dumou- 
ricz.  It  is  not  onl}^  in  the  army  that  the  traitor  has  his  accomplices — 
arc  they  not  in  your  very  bosom?"  (Applause  on  the  left;  the  members 
on  the  riijhl  are  in  great  agitation.  Some  advance  toward  the  speaker 
with  threats,  and  demand,  in  loud  tones,  that  he  be  chased  from  the  floor.) 
"For  a  long  time  the  pubMc  voice  has  designated  the  Yergniauds,  the 
Guadets,  the  Gensonnes,  the  Brissots,  the  Barbaroux,  the  Louvets,  and 
the  Buzots.  "Why  do  you  delay  to  strike  the  decree  of  accusation  ?  You 
outlawed  Dumouriez,  and  yet  you  allow  his  accomplices  in  your  midst. 
Representatives  of  the  people  I  Patriots  of  the  Mountain!  (Applause.) 
On  you  rests  the  country — safe  from  the  designs  of  traitors.  It  is  time 
to  strip  the  liberticide  of  his  inviolability.  Rise  up — dehver  to  the  Tri- 
bunal the  men  whom  public  opinion  accuses.  Declare  war  on  all  moder- 
ates, all  monks,  and  on  all  the  agents  of  the  late  Court  of  the  Tuileries. 
Appear  at  the  Tribunes  as  burning  patriots.  Invoke  the  sword  of  the 
law  (the  guillotine.)  upon  the  heads  of  these  inviolables,  and  then  pos- 
terity will  bless  the  time  in  which  you  lived  1" 

April  24.  The  Moniteur  contains  the  account  of  the  fete  of  Sunday 
the  14th.  "The  Statue  of  Liberty  is  fixed  before  the  rooms  of  the  popular 
society  of  Jacobins.  It  was  accompanied  and  followed  by  patriotic  and 
warlike  songs,  the  Ca  Ira  and  the  Marseillaise — la  Carma/jnole,  and  a  thou- 
sand shouts  of  Vice  la  Rr'publique.  The  most  solemn  scenes  succeed  this 
grand  march.  Having  arrived  at  the  house  of  the  Commune,  the  citizens 
press  in  in  crowds,  and  the  President  pronounces  a  discourse  which  revives 
the  love  of  liberty,  of  equality,  and  the  entiiusiasm  of  Republicanism." 


ANACHARSIS  CLOOTZ  SPEAKS.  361 

"  Let  us  swear,"  cries  a  citizen,  "  to  fraternize  with  all  people  who  adopt 
our  principles.  Let  us  declare  an  eternal  war  on  all  knaves,  and  pro- 
claim peace  and  brotherhood  to  all  nations.  "We  swear  it — we  swear  it, 
is  heard  on  all  sides.     Let  kings  forever  perish! — Vive  la  Ripublique  1" 

24th  ApriL  "  Anacliarsis  Clootz's  speech  on  the  Constitution,  bringing 
out  more  of  his  peculiar  views  of  the  rights  of  man.  He  closes  with 
three  propositions  :  '  The  Convention,  wishing  to  put  an  end  to  all  error 
and  contradiction,  and  all  contradictory  claims  of  corporations,  and  such 
individuals  as  call  themselves  sovereigns,  declares  solemnly,  under  the 
rights  of  man — 

(1.)  '  That  there  is  no  other  sovereign  than  mankind. 

(2.)  '  Each  individual  and  each  community  which  recognizes  this  lumi- 
ous  and  unchangeable  principle,  will  receive  the  fraternal  association 
in  the  Eepublic  of  men. 

(3.)  '  In  default  of  marine  communication,  we  should  attempt  the  propa- 
gation of  the  truth,  in  order  to  admit  to  the  association  all  escaped  slaves." 

Report  of  the  Tribunal  for  24th  April.  "lu  virtue  of  tlie  judgment 
of  the  Tribunal,  Jeanne  Catherine  Clerk,  domestic ;  Hyacinth  Vaujour, 
late  Colonel  of  Dragoons ;  Antoine  St.  Andre,  late  prior  of  the  Trinity 
of  Cliifon;  and  Gabriel  Duguigny,  have  suffered  death.  Tlie  first  for 
having  held  conversation  tending  to  provoke  the  massacre  of  the  Con 
vention  and  the  dissolution  of  the  Republic.  The  second  for  having 
held  discourse  tending  to  effect  murder  and  incendiarism — the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  National  representation,  and  of  the  patriotic  society  of  Jaco- 
bins, and  the  restoration  of  royalty.  The  third  for  having  composed 
and  printed  a  work  entitled,  'To  the  friends  of  Truth,'  with  this  motto, 
Quid  fuimus?  Ancipites  quid  sumus  I  Quid  erimus?  Infelices  heu!  A 
work  which  provokes  to  murder  and  the  dissolution  of  tlie  National  rep- 
resentation. Duguigny's  crime  is  emigration.  The  last,  after  his  sen- 
tence, solicited  of  his  judges,  as  a  favor  of  greatest  value,  an  interview 
(without  a  witness)  with  the  demoiselle  Urban,  the  only  person  (as  he 
says)  in  the  world  to  whom  he  is  attached.  The  judges,  upon  dehbera- 
tion,  refused  his  request." 

In  Convention,  1 3th  April.     The  Girondins,  ha-vdng  a  small  majority, 
order  that  Marat  be  put  in  arrest  and  sent  to  the  Tribunal.     They  thus 


362  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

make  a  desperate  struggle  against  their  chief  enemy,  but  it  failed.  This 
might  have  been  easily  foreseen,  since  the  Ti-ibunal,  to  which  he  was 
sent,  was  composed  of  his  own  friends.  On  his  trial,  J»farat  exhibited 
any  thing  but  fear,  or  even  disquietude.  He  displayed  a  bold  confidence, 
or  rather  a  triumphant  joy.  As  he  entered  the  hall,  its  crowded  benches 
of  spectators  caused  it  to  echo  with  applause.  Marat  addressed  them 
as  follows :  "  Citizens,  it  is  not  a  criminal  that  appears  before  you ;  it  is 
an  apostle,  or  martyr  of  hberty.  An  intriguing  faction  has  obtained  a 
decree  of  accusation  against  me." 

The  first  testimony  was  drawn  from  the  columns  of  the  Patriot  Fran- 
9ois,  which  was  one  of  Marat's  organs.  The  President  inquires,  "Are 
these  your  writings?"  Marat  answers,  "All  mine,  I  recognize  them  at 
the  first  glance."  The  witnesses  include  the  names  of  two  Englishmen, 
one  Johnson  and  Thomas  Paine.  It  was  proved  that  Johnson  had  at- 
tempted suicide  on  reading  the  report  that  Paine  was  to  suffer  death, 
along  with  others  who  had  voted  in  defence  of  the  King.  It  was  at- 
tempted to  be  proved  that  he  had  read  this  in  Marat's  journal.  How 
absurd  an  idea  was  this  1  How  utterly  ridiculous,  to  punish  an  editor 
for  conclusions  drawn  from  an  item  of  news.  Yet  such  a  charge  here 
appears  as  solemn  as  though  it  had  been  murder  itself.  Johnson,  how- 
ever, testified  that  he  read  the  item  not  in  Marat's  journal,  but  in  Gorsas. 
(Applause.)  Both  Johnson  and  Paine  were  examined  at  length  through 
an  interpreter,  and  their  testimony  was  as  absurd  and  irrelevant  as  can 
be  imagined;  frequent  applause  interrupted  the  proceedings,  which 
Marat  checked  thus:  "Citizens,  my  cause  is  yours.  I  defend  my  coun- 
try. I  beseech  you  to  preserve  the  profoundest  silence,  in  order  that  the 
enemies  v/ho  persecute  me  may  not  say  that  the  Tribunal  is  partial." 

Marat's  speech  in  defence  is  full  of  grandiloquent  display,  and  is  re- 
ceived with  continued  applause.  The  verdict  of  citizen  Dumont,  the 
foreman  of  the  jury,  is  as  follows:  "I  have  examined  with  care  the 
passages  cited.  I  can  suppose  no  counter-revolutionary  purpose  in  the 
intrepid  defender  of  the  people's  rights.  It  is  difficult  to  contain  one's 
just  indignation  when  one  beholds  his  country  betrayed." 

Great  applause — followed  by  a  few  words  from  the  jubilnnt  Deputy. 
"I  praise  the  impartialit}-  of  the  jur}',  who  have  recognized  my  inno- 


TUMULTS  IN  THE  CONVENTIOK  363 

conce.     Citizens,  protect  the  innocent,  punish  the  guUty,  and  save  the 
Republic." 

Thus  ended  the  farce  at  the  Tribunal ;  and  having:  been  crowned  by  a 
civic  wreath  (oak  leaves),  he  is  brought  back  in  triumph  to  the  Conven- 
tion. 

Sunday,  June  2,  1793.  A  fresh  scene  of  violence  at  the  Convention 
A  deputation  of  the  Commune  of  Paris  appears  and  makes  a  bold  and 
defiant  speech.  The  President  (Isnard)  replies :  "  It  is  necessary  that 
the  constituted  authorities  of  Paris  use  aU  their  power  to  maintain 
the  Convention's  dignity.  If  ever  that  Convention  be  degraded— if 
ever,  in  those  insurrections  which  have  so  often  occurred  since  the  10th 
of  March—"  (Great  outcries  on  the  left;  applause  on  the  rirjht.) 

Falire  D'Eglantine.     "I  demand  the  floor  against  you,  President." 

The  President.  "  If  by  these  insurrections  it  shall  ever  so  happen 
that  injury  be  received  by  the  National  representation,  I  declare  to  you 
in  the  name  of  aU  France—"  (No,  no  I  on  the  Ze/<— the  others  cry  out, 
"Yes,  yes,  speak  out  in  the  name  of  France.") 

The  President.  "I  declare  m  the  name  of  all  France,  Paris  shall  he 
annihilated."  (Violent  outcries  on  the  l^ft  drown  his  voice— others  on 
the  right  exclaun,  "  Yes,  aU  France  will  demand  an  exemplary  vengeance 
on  this  attempt.") 

Marat.  "President,  come  down  from  your  chair— you  play  the  role  of 
a  coward — you  dishonor  the  Assembly .'" 

The  President.  "  The  time  is  coming  when  they  will  seek  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine  whether  Paris  ever  existed."  (Outcries  on  the  ltf^~ 
applause  on  the  7-ight.) 

Isnard,  who  spoke  so  vehemently,  was  a  Girondin,  and  was  afterwards 
designated  by  his  enemies  as  le  pro2}heie  Isnard.  He  was  subsequently 
guillotined,  the  accusation  being  drawn  from  this  scene.  He  was  charg- 
ed with  insulting  the  people  and  denying  the  right  of  petition.  Isnard 
appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  few  who  had  a  true  idea  of  Liberty. 
This  is  shown  by  his  reply  to  one  of  those  deputations  which  so  frequent- 
ly addressed  the  Convention.  "  Citizens,  it  is  easy  to  recognize  in  these 
demonstrations  the  sentiments  of  Liberty,  but  to  have  if,  it  is  necessary  to 
yield  obedience  to  law.    Know  then,  that  Liberty  does  not  consist  in  words 


804  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

or  emblems.     Know  that  tyranny  is  not  less  tyranny,  whether  hid  in  a 
cave  or  shown  in  public  places — whether  seated  upon  a  tlirone  or  on 
the  tribune  of  a  club — whether  wielding  sceptre  or  dagger — whether 
crowned  in  splendor  or  a  mere  sans-cnMtty 

4th  June,  1793.  A  fresh  deputation  appears  at  the  bar  of  the  Con- 
vention, which  is  thus  addressed  by  the  orator : 

"Delegates  of  the  People:  The  citizens  of  Paris  have  not  laid  down 
their  arms  in  four  days ;  for  four  'days  they  have  demanded  of  the  au- 
thorities their  rights,  outrageously  witlilield,  and  for  four  daj's  tlie  au- 
thorities laugh  at  their  cahn  behavior.  Tiie  torch  of  Liberty  has  paled 
— the  columns  of  Equahty  are  fallen — the  counter-revolutionists  exalt 
their  insolent  heads.  Let  them  tremble  1  The  most  fearful  liglitning 
■will  yet  smite  them  to  powder  I  (Great  applause.)  Representatives,  the 
frictions  are  Icnown  to  you!  (Applause.)  Wo  have  come  for  the  last 
time  to  denounce  them  to  you.  Decree  instantly  that  they  are  unwor- 
thy the  public  confidence — put  tliem  in  arrest  1  Save  the  people,  or  we 
will  save  ourselves!" 

This  threat  was  directed  against  the  Girondins ;  and  was,  of  course, 
dictated  by  their  enemies  in  the  Convention,  who  thereupon  decreed  that 
the  twenty -two  members  denounced  by  the  Commune  be  put  in  arre-sf. 

The  Girondins  being  now  under  arrest,  it  was  necessary  to  get  up 
further  charges  against  them,  as  an  excuse  for  their  execution.  Hence 
on  tlie  10th  of  June  we  find  Chaumette,  the  tool  of  Robespierre,  ha- 
ranguing the  Revolutionary  Council  on  the  existence  of  a  conspiracy 
against  patriots.  He  here  states  "  that  an  ingenious  mechanic  is  making 
a  guillotine  with  thirty  collars,  in  order  to  behead  thirty  persons  ut  once." 

"What  a  bloody  imagination  must  that  be  which  could  suggest  so  fear- 
ful an  instrument  of  death! 

Hcbert,  another  tool  of  Robespierre,  reiterates  the  same  complaints 
of  counter-revolutionary  movements  in  the  Sections,  and  demands  the 
arrest  of  the  scelerats,  who  cabal  against  liberty. 

Thus,  also,  on  the  11th  June,  Chaumette  announces  that  there  is  in 
Paris  a  plot  to  butcher  the  Commune,  and  that  the  rich  desire  to  do  in 
Paris  that  wliich  has  liccn  done  in  Lyons ;  and  that  at  some  of  their  feasts 
"  they  drink  not  to  the  health  of  the  Commune,  but  to  its  destruction." 


COMPLAINT  AGAINST  THE  OFERA.  3G5 

The  same  speaker  thus  discourses  upon  matters  of  rehgion:  "These 
are  the  refractory  priests  'wriio  in  citizens'  dress  bring  trouble  in  the 
Sections,  and  would  make  Paris  a  second  Vendee.  Happily,  the  people 
are  calm — the  people  are  beginning  to  be  wise.  "We  must  have  bread 
before  mass.  We  must  have  a  day  of  rest  for  the  people.  We  must 
have  a  Sunday,  but  not  a  Sunday  stained  by  superstition.  "VVe  shall 
undoubtedly  have  our  fetes,  but  moral  fetes.  We  will  celebrate  those  of 
espousals,  and  of  mothers,  but,  above  all,  of  mothers  who  bring  up  their 
own  children.  We  will  have  civic  fetes.  On  the  10th  of  August  we 
will  have  a  gathering,  and  tfie  people  shall  be  God;  there  is  no  need  of  any 
other." 

,  This  reference  to  fetes  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  the  new  Constitu- 
tion had  ordained  these  festivals  as  a  quasi  religious  element.  Among 
others,  there  was  the  Jete  of  beginning  the  tillage  of  the  land ;  the  fete 
of  youth ;  the  fete  of  marriage ;  the  fete  of  maternity ;  the  fete  of  old  age ; 
the  fete  of  the  rights  of  man;  they^'fe  of  Equahty;  the  f'fe  of  Liberty; 
the  fete  of  Justice ;  and  other  fetes  severally  of  Benevolence,  Poetry,  Sci- 
ence, Fraternity,  and  of  Mankind — the  latter  being  celebrated  on  New 
Tear.'  The  reader  wOl  observe  how  closely  these  institutions  border  on 
those  of  heathenism,  as  described  in  the  classics. 

The  Commune  of  Paris,  which  was  the  centre  of  aU  popular  com- 
plaints, listens  on  the  18th  of  June  to  the  following: 

"Certain  citizens  complain  of  the  managers  of  the  Opera,  which  re- 
fuses to  play  a  patriotic  piece  called  the  Siege  of  ThionviUe.  The  C0771- 
mune,  considering  that  for  a  long  time  the  Aristocracy  finds  refuge 
among  the  managers  of  pubUc  amusements ;  considering  also  how  these 
gentlemen  corrupt  public  spirit  by  their  performances :  Ordered — 

"Tliat  the  Siege  of  ThionviUe,  a  piece  truly  patriotic,  shall  be  per- 
formed gratis,  and  for  the  sole  amusement  of  the  Sans- Culottes,  who,  up 
to  this  moment,  have  been  the  true  defenders  of  Liberty,  and  the  sup- 
porters of  Democracy." 

To  this  the  managers  make  the  following  replication,  while  promising 
a  gratuitous  performance  of  the  piece  referred  to :  "  All  the  novelties 
they  have  brought  out  are  patriotic,  such  as  the  Hymn  of  Liberty,  the 
Camp  of  Grand  Pre,  the  Republican  Triumph,  the  Apotheosis  of  Beau- 


3GG  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

repairs,  etc.,  etc.,  and  also  at  this  moment  they  have  other  Repubhcan 
works  in  preparation."  They  add  that,  "notwithstanding  enormous 
losses  which  they  have  sustained  in  fifteen  months,  they  have  given 
18,816  livres  in  patriotic  donations." 

The  increasing  famine  in  Paris  brings  out  the  following  instances  of 
Civisme:  "The  Section  of  Montmartre  and  Section  of  the  Armed  Man 
give  notice  to  the  consul-general  of  an  order  taken  by  them  in  conse- 
quence of  the  high  price  of  food :  they  have  imposed  on  themselves  a 
civic  Lent."   (Applause.) 

The  Moniteur  of  July  29th,  1793,  contains  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
trials  of  any  age — that  of  Charlotte  Corday.  The  history  of  this  remark- 
able woman  is  so  romantic,  that  it  will  never  lose  its  interest.  She  had 
left  her  father's  house  in  Caen  (in  La  Gironde),  determined  to  destroy 
tlie  miscreant  who  had  deluged  Paris  in  blood.  Her  decision  had  been 
fi.xed  by  the  imprisonment  of  the  twenty-two  deputies,  and  she  entered 
Paris  with  a  determination  to  sacrifice  her  life  to  accomplish  her  end. 

Obtaining  access  to  Marat,  on  the  plea  of  public  business,  she  plunged 
a  dagger  in  his  breast,  while  his  attention  was  engaged  by  a  paper 
which  she  placed  in  his  hands. 

On  trial,  in  reply  to  a  question  of  the  President,  she  gave  her  name, 
"  Marie  Charlotte  Corday,  aged  twenty -five,  born  at  Caen." 

"  Do  you  know  who  killed  the  deceased?" 

"  Yes  1    It  is  I  that  kiUed  him." 

"  What  led  you  to  kUl  him  ?" 

"His  crimes  1" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  his  crimes  ?" 

"The  evils  which  he  has  caused  since  the  Revolution." 

The  evidence  of  Citoyenne  Errard,  who  admitted  the  prisoner  to  the 
house,  is  given.  The  prisoner  is  asked  for  her  answer,  and  replies,  "  I 
have  nothing  to  say — the  fact  is  true." 

The  same  reply  is  made  to  the  testimony  of  tlie  other  domestics, 
Jeanne  Marcchal,  Basso  and  Marie  Aubin ;  to  the  deposition  of  the  lat- 
ter she  adds :  "  It  is  of  the  greatest  truth.  I  slew  one  man  to  save  a 
tliousand.  I  was  a  republican  before  the  Revolution,  and  I  never  failed 
in  energy." 


CHARLOTTE  CORDAY.  367 

"What  do  you  mean  by  energy?" 

"That  which  gives  selfishness  the  go-by,  and  sacrifices  itself  for  one's 
country." 

"Did  you  ever  practise,  before  advancing  to  give  the  blow  to  Marat?" 

"iSToI  I  am  no  assassin." 

"Those  who  understand  these  things,  say  that  if  you  had  struck  en 
long  instead  of  en  large,  he  would  not  have  been  killed." 

"I  struck  just  as  it  was — it  was  at  hazard." 

The  accused  sees  that  some  one  in  the  crowd  is  sketching  her  fea- 
tures, and  turns  one  side. 

Cheveau,  who  is  appointed  to  defend  the  prisoner,  speaks  as  follows : 

"  Citizen- Jurors :  The  accused  avows  with  sang-froid  the  horrible 
crime  which  she  has  committed.  She  avows  with  sang-froid  the  long 
premeditation.  In  one  word,  she  acknowledges  all,  and  does  not  even 
try  to  justify  herself.  Behold,  citizen-jurors,  the  whole  defence  1  This 
imperturbable  calm,  and  this  entire  self-abnegation,  which  can  tlius 
speak  remorselessly  in  the  face  of  death  itself,  seems  sublime.  It  is  not 
in  nature,  and  one  cannot  explain  it  except  by  the  buoyancy  of  that 
fanaticism  which  placed  the  dagger  in  her  hand.  It  is  for  you,  citizeu- 
jiu-ors.  to  judge  what  weight  this  consideration  ought  to  have  on  the 
balance  of  justice." 

Sentence  of  death  and  of  confiscation  of  goods  is  pronounced. 

"  Turning  to  Cheveau,  the  prisoner  exclaims :  '  You  have  defended 
me  in  a  dehcate  and  generous  manner.  It  was  the  only  suitable  thing. 
I  thank  you,  and  desire  to  give  you  a  proof  of  my  esteem.  These  gea- 
tleinen  say  my  effects  are  confiscated.  I  have  some  things  in  prison :  I 
charge  you  to  acquit  this  debt.'  " 

"  Charlotte  Corday  is  conveyed  to  prison,  and  a  confessor  presents 
himself,  to  whom  she  replies:  'Thanks  for  their  attention  to  those  who 
sent  you.  I  have  no  need  of  your  ministry.'  At  this  moment,  tlie 
executioner  enters  the  prison,  to  conduct  her  to  the  scaflbld.  She  theu 
wrote  the  following  letter,  wliich  she  requested  to  be  sealed  and  deliv- 
ered: 

"  'To  Doulcet  Pontecontant :  Doulcet  Pontecontant  is  a  coward  dolt, 
for  having  refused  to  defend  me,  when  the  thing  could  so  easily  have 


868  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

been  done.  He  who  did  it  acquitted  himself  with  all  possible  dignity. 
I  shall  preserve  his  memory  till  the  latest  moment.'  " 

"In  going  to  the  scaffold,  Charlotte  Corday  hears  notliing  but  applatise 
and  bravos.  A  sigh  is  the  only  way  in  which  she  shows  her  feelings. 
Mounted  on  the  scaffold,  her  countenance  has  all  the  coolness  and  color 
of  one  well  satisfied. 

"  The  fatal  steel  severs  the  neck.  Legras  lifts  up  the  head  to  the 
view  of  the  people,  and  gives  it  several  slaps  on  the  face,  at  which  the 
public  cry  out  in  indignation." 


"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  papa,  for  having  disposed  of  my  life  without 
your  consent.  I  have  truly  avenged  the  innocent  victims — I  have  truly 
prevented  many  disasters.  The  people,  one  day  disabused,  will  rejoice 
to  have  been  delivered  from  a  tyrant.  If  I  have  desired  to  persuade 
you  that  I  went  to  England,  it  was  that  I  hoped  to  preserve  my  incotj- 
nito,  but  I  have  seen  the  impossibility  of  tliis.  I  hope  you  will  not  be 
utterly  cast  do^vn. 

"Adieu,  my  dear  papal  I  pray  you  forget  me,  or  rather  rejoice  at  my 
fate.  You  knew  your  daughter ;  a  wrong  motive  could  not  influence 
me.  I  embrace  my  sister,  whom  I  love  with  all  my  heart,  as  well  as 
my  parents.     Do  not  forget  that  line  in  Corneille : 

"  The  criiiie  iiiakfs  tlic  jriiilt,  not  the  scaffold." 

Towards  September  the  increase  of  public  distrust  is  shown  by  the 
proceedings  of  the  Commune.  The  Monikur  of  the  8th  reports  that  at 
the  last  meeting,  "the  Section  du  Pantheon  announces  that  it  has  purged 
its  bosom  of  aU  aristocrats,  and  invites  all  citizens  to  follow  its  example." 

The  Procureur  of  tlie  Commune  (Chaumette)  immediately  urges  tliat 
body  "  to  purge  itself  of  all  friends  of  kings  or  queens,  and  even  to  put 
them  in  arrest."  He  proceeds  to  accuse  Lebeuf  of  not  possessing  a 
Republican  character.  He  also  denounces  citizen  Michouet,  and  demands 
that  the  character  of  these  two  be  closely  examined.  He  also  demands 
the  expulsion  of  all  members  accused  of  moderatism.  Among  others, 
Berthelin  is  excluded  for  having   behaved   in   too   humble  a  manner 


AN  AUTHOR  IN  TROUBLE.  369 

toward  the  prisoners  in  the  temple  (the  Queen  and  Princess  Eliza- 
beth). A  citizen  denounces  Desavanne,  and  he  is  likewise  cast  out.  On 
requisition  of  the  Procureur,  the  Commune  ordered  the  calling  of  the 
roll,  in  order  to  exercise  censorship  on  the  members ;  as  a  result,  Jobert 
was  accused  of  having  discharged  the  dealers  in  silver,  and  the  Procureur 
commands  seals  to  be  put  on  his  papers. 

A  young  man  named  Petuand,  who  had  prepared  this  morning  an 
address  to  the  Convention  against  the  decree  of  drafting,  declares  that  he 
w\is  misled  by  other  persons  of  his  own  age.  The  Section,  tlie  organ  of 
his  repentance,  declares  that  he  is  known  as  a  good  patriot  The  Com- 
mune, in  overlooking  the  young  man's  error,  caUs  on  him  to  denounce 
tliose  who  misled  him. 

A  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  HIS  PUPILS. 

"The  young  scholars  of  the  Abbe  Autheaum  solicit  the  liberty  of 
their  instructor,  who  has  been  arrested  on  suspicion.  They  declare 
that  they  wiU  give  their  individual  security  for  this  citizen,  to  whom 
their  very  bodies  and  souls  are  attached.  The  Procureur  (Chaumette) 
observes,  that  without  doubt  some  one  whom  we  little  suspect  has  writ- 
ten the  appHcation.  He  addresses  the  scholars.  He  makes  them  feel 
tlie  danger  which  they  have  ignorantly  incurred.  The  Commune  orders 
that  measures  be  taken  to  learn  the  name  of  the  author,  and  that  the 
matter  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  police." 

AN  AUTHOR  IN  TROUBLE. 

PaUssot,  through  one  of  his  friends,  asks  for  a  certificate  of  Civisme. 
Chaumette  takes  the  floor.  "  Pahssot,  a  man  of  letters,  has  let  his  pen 
mould  in  the  inkstand  rather  than  write  for  Liberty.  This  is  he  who, 
like  a  venomous  reptile,  endeavors  to  sully  the  crown  of  the  famous 
Rousseau.  This  is  he  who  insults  the  sublime  unfortunate,  in  his 
infamous  comedy  of  the  Philosophers.  He  dares  to  put  Rousseau  on  aU- 
fours  and  makes  Mm  eat  lettuce.  Cursed  be  those  monsters  who  have 
drawn  the  steel  of  calumny  against  Rousseau.  It  is  for  patriots  to 
avenge  the  sincere  friend  of  humanity— the  angel  of  light  who  showed 
liberty  to  man.  In  consequence  of  this  I  oppose  the  giving  a  certificate 
to  I'alisRot." 

10* 


370  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  RKTGX  OF  TERROR. 

"  The  citizens  of  the  Section  Moliere  announce  that  it  will  take  the 
name  of  Section  of  Brutus.  Section  of  Champs  Elysees  gives  notice  of 
forming  a  popular  society  under  the  name  of  Red  Caps  (a  rage  for 
popular  societies  is  now  prevailing). 

"  The  citizens  of  the  Section  Muti^^s  Scevola  (late  Luxembourg)  pre- 
sent themselves  before  the  Commune,  and  swear  to  traverse  the  camp 
of  the  enemy,  and  to  plunge  the  dagger  in  the  bosom  of  the  new  Por- 
sennas  who  conspire  against  Liberty."  (Great  apj^lause  and  patriotic 
chants.) 

September,  1793. — Scene  in  the  Jacobin  Club.  Robespierre  in  the 
Chair. — "A  squadron  of  dragoons  is  introduced  with  a  blast  of  trumpets. 
Royer,  their  spokesman,  expresses  their  determination  to  live  or  die  for 
the  Republic,  to  fight  until  the  last  breath  under  their  banner.  The 
trumpets  then  sound  a  blast,  and  Maure  remarks  that  it  is  the  trumpet 
of  judgment  of  aristocrats."  (Applause.)  One  of  the  trumpeters  mounts 
the  Tribune  and  exclaims:  '•Citizens  of  tlie  National  Dragoons,  the 
country  is  in  danger — tlie  tocsin  sounds — we  hear  it,  and  swear  to 
exterminate  the  hordes  of  brigands  who  only  obey  despots."  In  fine, 
tiiey  swear  not  to  return  untQ  they  have  purified  the  faith  of  hberty, 
and  that  if  one  of  them  be  so  base  as  to  fly,  there  will  be  no  need  for 
the  enemy  to  give  him  a  fatal  blow.     (Applause.) 

"  The  Society  of  Jacobins  of  CHARLESTON,  S.  C,  demands  affilia- 
tion:'* 

The  trial  of  the  Girondins  having  been  demanded  in  the  club  on  the 
1 2th  September,  the  next  issue  of  the  Moniteur  announces  casually  that 
they  have  been  removed  to  the  Conciergerie  [i.  e.  the  guard-house 
beneath  the  hall  of  the  Tribunal). 

"Saintcxt  complains  that  the  rich  folks  yesterday  appeared  at  the 
Sections  with  a  sort  of  affectation,  and  that  it  is  necessary  to  have  tliis 
influence  counterbalanced." 

Boissell. — "As  for  these  upstarts  who  frequent  the  Sections,  it  is  only 
by  driving  them  away  that  we  escape  their  influence.     If  an  order  be 

*  Tlie  fact  that  it  was  the  descendants  of  these  Charleston  Jnc<)liins  who  flred  on 
the  national  Ua;r  at  Fort  Sumter,  is  a  striking;  illustration  of  the  priiidples  of  that 
infamous  club.     It  is  the  only  American  club  of  whose  afflliatiun  wo  have  any  recoH. 


REVOLUTIOXARY  ORATORY.  371 

not  sufficient,  we  must  use  a  cudgel.     See  how  they  enjoy  themselves 
in  their  liberticide  projects." 

The  speech  of  Herault  de  Sechelles  (guillotined  on  the  3d  of  the  next 
April),  on  the  ceremony  of  inaugurating  the  Constitution,  is  a  fair 
specimen  of  revolutionary  eloquence : 

"0  Nature,  Sovereign  of  savage  and  of  civilized  nations,  the  people, 
who  have  since  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  surrounded  thy  image,  are 
worthy  of  thee  !  They  are  free  1  It  is  thy  breast — thy  sacred  sources 
which  have  regenerated  them.  After  having  traversed  so  mauy  ages 
of  error  and  of  slavery,  it  is  proper  to  return  to  the  simplicity  of  thy 
path  in  order  to  find  liberty  and  equality. 

"0  Nature,  receive  this  expression  of  eternal  attachment  of  French- 
men for  law,  and  for  those  fruitful  waters  which  flow  from  thy  breast — 
that  pure  cup  which  satisfied  the  first  of  mankind.  Consecrate  in  this 
stroke  of  fraternity  and  equality  the  words  which  France  offers  thee 
this  day — the  brightest  on  which  the  sun  has  shone  since  he  was 
suspended  in  the  immensity  of  space!" 

(What  difference,  one  may  ask,  is  there  between  this  and  any  other 
sample  of  Heathen  oratory  or  song ;  the  Carmen  Seculare  of  Horace,  for 
instance  ?) 

The  procession  having  arrived  at  the  Place  de  la  Revolution^  lialted, 
and  the  speaker  resumed:  "Here  the  axe  of  the  law  has  smitten  the 
tyrant.*  Justice  and  Vengeance,  tutelar  divinities  of  a  free  people,  for- 
ever stamp  on  the  name  of  traitor  the  execration  of  mankind.  Freemen ! 
people  of  equality !  Only  employ  as  the  images  of  your  grandeur  the 
attributes  of  your  labors,  your  talents,  and  your  virtues.  Let  the 
pike,  the  cap  of  hberty,  the  plough,  and  the  blade  of  corn,  emblems  of 
the  arts  by  which  society  is  enriched,  form  the  decorations  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Thou  holy  earth,  overflow  with  these  true  benefits  j  spread  tliem 
among  all  mankind,  and  only  become  sterile  for  those  who  yield  to 
exclusive  pleasure  or  to  pride.  Frenchmen,  s\vear  to  defend  the  Con- 
stitution tiU  death!     The  Republic  is  eternal!" 

The  Mouiteur  of  10th  September  contains  the  followiug  examples  of 

*  How  little  could  the  speaker  imagine  that  he  would  feel  the  Jwe  o/ffic  I.uio  oq 
this  vor/  spot ! 


372  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  RKIGX  OF  TERROR. 

true  grandeur  among  tlie  hapless  victims  of  popular  despotism :  "  Jaques 
Constant  Tunde,  late  noble,  is  condemned  to  death  for  emigration.  He 
demands  to  speak.  'I  sliall  die,'  says  he,  'as  I  have  lived.  This 
tribunal  will  yet  repent  of  having  condemned  me — my  prophecy  wiU 
be  sure.'  The  condemned  then  turns  himself  to  the  people  and  ex- 
claims :  '  Sovereign,  I  die  content,  since  Louis  XVII.  will  soon  reign 
over  the  Erencli.'  " 

A  prophecy  whicli  in  due  time  was  fullilled. 

Amid  these  scenes  of  terror  and  despair,  we  are  struck  by  a  notice 
which  appears  in  September,  and  which  is  like  the  voice  of  Christ  amid 
the  tempest : 

"  The  citizen  Sicard,  instructor  of  deaf  mutes,  believes  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  notify  his  feUow-citizens  that  'public  lessons  of  dtaf  mutes  are 
given  every  Friday,  at  10  A.  M.,  at  the  institution,  No.  19  Rue  de 
Petite  Muse." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  that  famous  system  which  has  now  become 
universal.  The  reader  will  observe,  that  the  philanthropist  drops  his 
true  title.  Abbe  Sicard,  for  that  of  plain  "  Citizen.''^  It  is  a  wonder  that 
he  escaped  the  scaffold,  when  Andre  Cheniere,  tlie  poet,  and  others  of  the 
more  gifted  and  philanthropic,  perished  upon  it. 

1 1th  September.  Charges  brought  against  the  Girondins  in  Jacobin  club. 
Cliarges  against  Isnard  o*"  having  attacked  the  sacred  right  of  petition, 
and  the  sovereignty  of  the  peoi^le,  and  of  abusing  the  office  of  president, 
in  order  to  bring  down  the  most  criminal  imprecations  on  the  Parisians, 
and  tlireatening  the  ruin  of  the  city.* 

14  th  September.  Chabot  announces  his  wedding  in  the  Jacobin  club.  "  I 
invite  the  society  to  name  a  deputation  to  assist  in  niy  marriage,  and  in 
the  banquet.  I  have  determined  tliat  no  priest  shaU  sully  my  nuptials. 
We  shall  employ  only  the  civil  authority ;  the  deputation  ought  to  be 
,-tV<^re  by  eight  o'clock,  and  I  desire  all  to  be  finished  by  nine,  for  I  wish 
not  to  be  absent  from  the  Convention,  and  my  bride  says  that  she  will 
cease  to  love  me  if  this  affair  causes  the  loss  of  a  single  day  at  the  Con- 
veution,  or  the  Jacobin  Club."  (Chabot  was  a  chief  witness  against  tlie 
Girondins,  and  was  himself  guillotined  on  tlie  6th  of  tlio  next  April.) 

What  makes  incivisme,  or  bad  citizenship.     lOlli  September,  in  Com- 

*  Vide  1..  .SfrJ. 


MERCY  TOWARD  LYOXS.  373 

munc  of  Paris.  The  Procureiur  (Chaumette)  moves  to  deny  certificates 
of  civism  to  certain  classes,  including,  among  others,  "  all  who  speak 
mysteriously  of  the  mishaps  of  the  Republic — who  pity  the  lot  of  the 
people,  and  are  always  ready  to  unfold  bad  news  with  an  afiected  grief — 
all  those  who  change  their  behavior  according  to  the  occasion,  and  who, 
while  remaining  silent  on  the  crimes  of  the  Royalists  and  the  Federalists, 
declaim  with  emphasis  against  the  trifling  faults  of  patriots — all  those 
who  affect  a  studied  austerity  and  severity  in  order  to  appear  to  be  Re- 
publican— all  those  who,  having  the  words  Liberty,  Republic,  or  country 
on  their  lips,  hang  around  the  ci-devant  nobles,,  counter-revolutionists, 
priests,  and  aristocrats — those  who,  having  done  nothing  against  Liberty, 
have  likewise  done  nothing  for  2^— those  who  fail  to  attend  the  Sections, 
and  who  give  for  excuse  either  that  they  do  not  know  how  to  speak,  or 
that  their  business  prevents  attendance." 

"  The  Procureur  demands  that  all  officers  in  the  Revolutionary  army 
who  ask  for  horses,  be  required  to  march  afoot,  at  the  liead  of  their 
companies,  and  that  the  army  be  only  allowed  horses  enough  to  haul 
provision  wagons  and  to  draio  the  guillotine.'''' 

Jacobin  Club,  21st  September,  Grcneral  Parien  speaks  thus:  "You 
have  made  me  brigadier-general,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  will  justify 
your  confidence.  My  colleague,  Boulanger,  has  asked  for  a  guillotine, 
and  I  demand  of  you  another,  and  I  promise  you  that  the  aristocrats 
and  the  monopolizers  wiU  soon  return  to  nothing."     (Applause.) 

Mormoro.  "  I  declare  to  the  society  that  citizen  Parien  has  himself 
guillotined  a  very  great  number  of  aristocrats  in  la  Vendee." 

MERCY  TOWARD  LYONS. 

Ta  Convention,  September  21.  "Decreed,  on  motion  of  Barrere,  first, 
that  an  extraordinary  commission  be  created,  to  inflict  military  punish- 
ment without  delay  on  the  counter-revolutionists  of  Lyons.  Second, 
that  all  the  inhabitants  be  disarmed,  except  the  patriots  who  have  been 
oppressed  by  the  rich  and  by  the  counter-revolutionists.  Third — the 
city  of  Lyons  is  to  be  destroyed,  and  nothing  is  to  remain  except  the 
houses  of  the  poor,  those  of  the  murdered  and  proscribed  patriots,  and 
those  devoted  to  industry,  and  monuments  consecrated  to  humanity  and 


374        journalism:  in  the  reign  of  terror. 

public  instniction.  Fourth — the  regathering  of  houses  thus  preserved 
shall  bear  the  reformed  name  of  Ville  Affranchie.  Fifth — there  shall  be 
raised  on  the  ruins  of  Lyons  a  column,  which  shall  testify  to  posterity 
the  crimes  and  the  punishment  of  royalists,  with  this  inscription :  '  Lyons 
waged  war  on  Liberty — Lyons  no  longer  exists.'  " 

TWINS  AT  THE  GUILLOTINE. 

Jaques  Bellanger  and  Pierre  Bellanger,  tivin  brothers,  cattle  butchers 
to  the  arm}',  were  convicted  by  the  tribunal  extraordinary  of  having  pro- 
moted royalty — of  having  manifested  a  design  to  avenge  the  king's 
death,  &c.,  &c.,  and  were  condemned  to  death. 

Gorsas,  ex-deputy  and  editor,  condemned  at  the  same  time,  asks  to 
spcalc ;  it  is  denied  him  ;  he  turns  to  the  people  and  exclaims,  "I  com- 
mend to  you  my  wife  and  children.  /  am  innocent,  and  my  death  will  he 
avenged." 

HOLY  OIL  DENOUNCED. 

"In  Comnnune,  Sept.  21,  a  citizen  denounces  the  holy  oil  of  Tours, 
which,  like  that  of  Rheims,  has  served  to  consecrate  many  tyrants. 
Ordered,  that  the  popular  society  of  Tours  be  written  to  to  destroy  this 
instrument  of  fanaticism  and  the  credulity  of  our  fathers." 

DEATH  AN  ETERNAL  SLEEP. 

In  Convinune,  of  Paris  (same  date)  a  decree  is  proposed  by  Fouche  con- 
cerning the  burial  of  the  dead,  among  whose  provisions  are  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"  Each  corpse  is  to  be  borne  to  the  place  of  burial  covered  by  a 
pall,  on  which  shall  be  painted,  ^  sleep.''  .  .  .  The  cemetery  shall  bo 
I)lanted  with  trees,  beneath  whose  shade  shall  be  erected  a  statue  repre- 
senting sleep ;  all  other  devices  shall  be  destroyed.  .  .  .  There 
shall  be  written  on  the  gate  of  the  consecrated  field,  out  of  pious  regard 
for  the  manes  of  the  dead,  this  inscription  :  ('  La  niort  est  un  sommeil 
eterucl.')  Death  is  an  eternal  sleep." 

Rousseau.  "The  citizens  of  Montmorenci,  always  full  of  remembrance 
of  the  immortal  author  of  '  Einilo,'  and   '  The  Social  Contract,'   petitioE 


TRIAL  OP  THE  QUEEN.  375 

tliat  the  name  of  J.  J.  Rousseau  and  his  works  be  added  to  that  of  their 
town.  The  decree  is  proposed,  that  the  place  and  the  valley  take  the 
name  of  'Emile.' " 

New  Calendar. — Octobre  is  to  be  called  Vendemiaire  (vintage) ;  Novem 
bre,  Brumaire  (fog) ;  Decembre,  Frimaire  (frost) ;  Janvier,  Nivose  (sleet) ; 
Eevrier,  Ventose  (windy) ;  Mars,  Pluviosc  (rainy)  ;  Avril,  Germinal 
(sprouting) ;  Mai,  Floreal  (flowery) ;  Juin,  Frairial  (meadowlike) ;  Juillet, 
Messidor  (harvest) ;  Aout,  Thermidor  (sultry)  ;  Septembre,  Frtictidor 
(fruitful).  The  week  and  the  Sabbath  are  abolished,  and  in  their  place 
ordained  as  follows ;  Primidi,  Duodi,  Tridi,  Quartidi,  Quiniidi,  Sextidi, 
Octidi,  Nonidi,  Decadi — ^the  latter  (tenth  day)  to  be  a  fete. 

This  woidd  make  in  every  year  thirty-six  decades  and  five  odd  days, 
which  were  to  be  called  Sans-culottides,  and  were  to  be  consecrated  to 
national  fetes.  The  first,  that  of  virtue;  the  second,  that  of  genius; 
third,  that  of  labor ;  fourtli,  tliat  of  opinion ;  fifth,  that  of  recompense  (or 
reward). 

Chaumette  on  wild  beasts.  "Ordered  by  the  Commune,  on  requisition 
of  the  Procureur,  that  all  dangerous  beasts,  such  as  leopards,  lions,  and 
others  seen  in  shows,  be  either  slain  or  sent  to  the  menagerie  at  Ver- 
sailles. Chaumette  also  demands  that  the  dial  and  the  clock  which 
stopped  as  by  a  miracle,  and  thus  marked  the  hour  of  -St.  Bartholomew, 
be  removed,  and  in  its  place  there  be  an  inscription  to  perpetuate  that 
curse  which  rested  on  Charles  IX.,  on  Medici,  on  priests,  and  on  king. 
He  also  required  that  the  inscription  which  had  been  placed  over  the 
House  of  the  Commune  should  bere  placed  by  these  words :  '  The  throne 
is  cast  do-wn  by  the  Sans-Cullottes.'  "  . 

Hebert  follows  it  up.  On  requisition  of  the  Suh-Procurcur,  "  within 
eight  days  the  Gothic  images  of  the  kings  of  France  on  the  porch  of 
Notre  Dame  be  destroyed,  and  all  marbles  and  bronzes,  on  which  are 
inscribed  the  orders  of  Parliament  against  victims  of  fanaticism  and 
ferocity  of  kings,  be  also  destroyed." 

Trial  of  the  Queen.  "Hebert  proves  the  conspiracy  thus :  'I  found 
a  clmrch-book  in  her  apartment,  in  which  were  these  counter-revolution- 
ary signs  or  figures :  a  flaming  heart  pierced  by  an  arrow,  on  which  was 
written,  '  Jesu,  have  mercy  on  us.'     The  public  accuser,  Fouquier  Tinville, 


376  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OP  TERROR, 

remarks,  '  that  of  the  accused  who  had  been  brought  before  this  tribunal 
as  conspirators,  and  on  whom  the  law  has  done  justice  with  the  edge  of 
tlio  sword,  the  most  part  bore  this  counter-revolutionary  symbol.'  " 

The  testimony  of  Hcibert  against  the  Queen  is  of  tlie  most  incredibly 
infamous  character,  and  such  as  could  not  be  honestly  urged  against  the 
most  degraded  of  women.  He  quotes  the  statements  of  Simon,  who,  as 
her  custodian  in  the  Tower,  had  "seen  these  things  tvith  his  own  eyes." 
We  can  imagine  few  contrasts  so  fearfully  striliing  as  that  of  the  pure 
and  loftj'-minded  Marie  Antoinette,  and  that  foul  mass  of  corruption 
which  reviled  her.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  these  charges  are  too  ob- 
scene to  be  published,  and,  being  of  course  imaginary,  give  one  an  idea 
of  the  dark  and  unutterable  pollution  of  the  Sans-Culotte.  One  of  tliese 
cliarges  was  incest ;  others  were  of  a  character  equally  revolting.  Yet 
with  lamb-hke  innocence  the  Queen  bore  it  all,  and  died  witli  a  serene 
majesty  which  astonished  the  rabble  that  tliirsted  for  her  blood. 

Execution  of  the  Queen,  16th  December,  1793.  "During  the  trial 
Marie  Antoinette  preserved  a  calm  and  assured  countenance,  though 
during  the  first  hours  of  examination  she  was  observed  to  move  her 
fingers  on  the  rail  of  her  chair,  like  one  playing  the  piano.  On  hearing 
sentence  pronounced,  she  did  not  exhibit  a  sign  of  alteration,  and  she 
left  the  audience  without  offering  a  word  either  to  the  judges  or  the 
peojjle.  It  was  half-past  four  in  the  morning,  and  she  was  then  con- 
ducted to  the  condemned  cell.  At  five  the  alarm  was  sounded  in  all 
the  Sections.  At  seven  the  whole  armed  force  was  afoot,  and  cannon 
placed  at  the  bridges  and  corners  of  the  streets.  At  ten,  patrols  are 
detailed  to  walk  the  streets  in  large  numbers.  At  eleven,  Marie  An- 
toinette, in  white  dishabille,  is  conducted  to  execution  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  other  criminals  (in  a  cart  instead  of  the  coach  which  her  husband 
had),  accompanied  by  a  constitutional  priest  in  citizen's  dress.  AU 
along  t))e  route  she  appeared  to  view  with  indifference  the  armed  force 
(30,000  men),  which  formed  a  double  column  tlirough  which  she  passed. 
There  could  not  be  perceived  on  her  countenance  any  abatement  of 
stately  pride,  and  she  seemed  insensible  to  the  cries  of  Vive  hi  Jii'pnb- 
lique !  A  has  la  tyrannic  !  which  ^he  could  not  but  hear.  She  spoke  but 
little  with  her  confessor.     The  tri-color  in  the  Rue  St.  Ilonore  attracted 


MARRIAGE  AGAIN".  377 

her  attention.  Arrived  at  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  her  attention  was 
turned  toward  the  Tuileries,  and  then  could  be  seen  signs  of  vivid  emo- 
tion. She  mounted  the  scaffold  with  courage — at  one-quarter  past  noon 
her  head  was  severed,  and  the  executioner  showed  it  to  tlie  people 
amid  cries  of  Vive  la  Ecpublique !" 

THE  PUBLIC  APPEARANCE  OP  WOMEN 

is  a  common  circumstance  in  the  columns  of  tlie  Moniteur,  but  we  only 
quote  a  single  reference.     In  Convention,  Sept.  18 : 

"  Tlie  society  of  female  Eepublicains  Eevolutionnaires,  by  tlieir  orator, 
bear  witness  to  the  Convention  of  their  solicitude  with  respect  to  the 
necessaries  of  life.  The  insolent  tradesmen  are  making  profit  out  of  your 
slackness  to  execute  the  desirable  stroke.  She  (the  orator)  compared 
the  people  to  tlie  blind,  to  whom  hght  is  promised,  yet  they  go  to  the 
tomb  mourning  their  choice  of  a  wortliless  physician." 

MARRIAGE  AGAIN. 

"In  Commune  of  Paris,  October  8,  Laplanche  (late  priest),  deputy  to 
Convention,  states  that  he  has  always  been  free  from  prejudice  and  su- 
perstition, and  that  he  informs  the  Commune  of  an  alliance  which  he  has 
formed  with  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  Mountain.'"  Tlae  President  gives 
the  bride  the  fraternal  kiss.  (Great  applause.)  Laplanche  adds,  "  that 
he  is  agoing  to  Sans-Culottise  the  department  of  Loiret,  notwithstanding 
his  marriage." 

Eulogy  on  a  Sans-Culotte  slain  at  Lyons.  DufeuiUe  to  his  brothers. 
Date,  Ville  AfFranchie  (late  Lyons).  "Brothers  and  friends,  I  send  you 
some  flowers  cast  by  a  friend  on  the  tomb  of  a  friend.  Read,  I  beseech 
you,  at  your  Tribune,  the  funeral  eulogy  wliich  I  send  you,  and  if  it 
causes  some  tears  to  flow,  my  end  is  accomplished,  and  I  am  satisfied." 

The  eulogy  opens  tlms:  "Impure  city  I  new  Sodom!  was  it  not 
enough  that  thou  didst  briug  forth  during  two  centuries  germs  of  aU 
manner  of  corruption,  and  to  have  poisoned  by  tliy  luxurj^  aud  vice 
France,  Europe,  tlie  whole  world  ?  It  wa,s  proper  to  crown  tliy  infamy 
by  giving  the  nascent  Republic  the  example  of  a  new  crime.  The  en- 
tire Republic   calls   out  for  vengeance.     Challier,  we  owe  it  to  thee  1 


378  JOURXALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

Martyr  of  Liberty  1  the  blood  of  these  miscreants  is  the  lustral  water 
whicli  we  bear  to  thy  vianes !  Aristocrats  and  fanatics,  serpents  of  the 
courts,  miserabks,  thus  you  arrogate  the  power  to  put  an  end  to  life — 
tlius  you  announce  that  in  your  hands  the  Eternal  lias  deposited  the 
square  and  compass  of  human  virtue.  Ye  corrupt  and  greedy  trades- 
men 1  Ye  women  foul  with  debauchery  1  Ye  adulterers  1  Ye  prosti- 
tutes! tyrants  of  the  people,  ye  do  well  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
people's  fi'iend.  Is  a  Messalina  to  pronounce  on  a  Brutus  ?  Is  a  Sar- 
danapalus  to  condemn  a  Socrates?" 

Report  from  La  Gironde.  "Many  have  been  taken  and  punished. 
There  are  eight  in  the  Paris  jails  who  should  be  sent  to  Bordeaux, 
where  their  examples  would  be  more  effectual.  One  remarkable  execu- 
tion is  tliat  of  Biroteau  (one  of  the  Girondins).  whom  we  took  off  a  vessel. 
The  infamous  traitor  Lavanguyon,  the  villain  who  set  the  counter- 
revolutionists  at  work  at  Toulon,  has  perished  on  the  scafibld.  We 
have  also  punished  the  Mayor  of  Bordeaux,  a  man  worth  ten  millions  of 
livres  and  fruitful  in  resources  of  mind,  and  whom  aU  who  were  not 
true  Sans-Culottes  looked  on  as  a  god.  "We  liave  issued  orders  to  pro- 
visionally change  the  name  of  tlie  department  of  Gironde  to  tliat  of 
Bee  d'Ambes." 

In  Commune  of  Paris,  6th  November.  "  A  member  of  the  Section  of 
Bonne  Kouvelle  desired  to  present  a  babe  wliich  had  been  baptized  by  tlie 
name  of  Eeine  (queen).  The  motlier  asked  the  name  of  '  Fraternile.'' 
Many  citizens  added,  '  Bonne  Nouvclle.^  The  name  of  '  Fraternite  Bonne 
Nouvelle''  was  given  to  the  cluld,  which  received  civic  haptism  beneath 
the  flag  of  tlic  Section,  amid  lively  cheers." 

November  8 — Chaumette's  wit.  "  Chaumette  announces  to  the  Com- 
mime  that  Orleans  [Egalite)  has  gone  to  the  punishment  due  to  his 
crhucs.  'I  have  sought,'  says  he,  '  witli  both  my  eyes,  some  party  to 
save  this  great  man,  but  could  not  find  one.  This  is  tlie  best  reply  wo 
can  make  to  the  impostures  of  our  enemies.'  "     (Applause.) 

Authoresses  at  the  Guillotine.  "  Madeleine  Frances  Dubet,  Olympe 
des  Gouges,  Marie  Madeleine  Contelet,  convicted  of  having  composed  Avrit- 
ings  tending  to  the  destruction  of  the  constitutional  authorities,  are  sent 
to  tlie  block." 


THE  AGE  OF  REASOX.  379 

"  Nicolas  Leroi,  convicted  of  having  held  propositions  tending  to  in- 
flame civil  war,  was  condemned  to  death.  When  the  said  Leroi  heard 
judgment  pronounced  against  him,  he  darted  from  the  bench  of  accusa- 
tion, in  order  to  rush  violently  on  the  judge  and  maltreat  him.  The 
doorkeeper  prevented  the  outrage,  and  reconducted  him  to  prison  just 
in  time  to  be  sent  to  the  scaffold." 

Burying  the  victims  of  the  Guillotine.  Chaumette  demands  of  the 
Commune,  that  the  place  where  the  bodies  of  executed  criminals  are 
buried  shall  be  kept  closed,  in  oi'der  to  prevent  sctlyrats  from  stripping 
the  clothing  from  the  dead. 

The  Age  of  Reason  at  hand.  In  Convention.  Nov.  8.  The  orator  of 
a  deputation  from  Seine  speaks  thus:  "Citizens,  the  Bisliop  of  the 
Romish  Church  is  dead.  Will  you  allow  the  pontifical  scat  to  exist  ? 
The  citizens  and  the  legislator  only  recognize  the  worship  of  liberty, 
or  that  of  one's  country.  Uoly  mountain  (the  reader  will  note  the  play 
upon  words),  let  a  rock  from  thy  summit  roU  down  and  crush  lliis  mon- 
ster!"    (Applause.) 

In  Commune,  9th  Nov.  "  Chaumette  renders  an  account  of  a  memo- 
rable session  of  the  Convention,  where  the  fanaticism  and  jugglery  of 
priests  have  yielded  their  last  groans — where  the  ministers  of  worship 
have  abjured  their  errors,  and  asked  pardon  for  having  so  long  abused 
the  credulity  of  the  people." 

Priestly  Recantation.  In  Convention,  the  President  exclaims :  "  I  an- 
nounce to  the  Convention  that  Gobel,  Bishop  of  Paris,  with  his  vicars 
and  many  curis,  a.sk  to  be  heard." 

Mormoro  (the  husband  of  the  Goddess  of  Reason).  "  Citizen  legis- 
lators ;  you  have  before  you  the  Bishop  of  Paris  and  other  priests.  Led 
by  Reason,  they  come  to  strip  off  the  characters  which  superstition  has 
given  them.  It  is  thus  that  the  mountebanks  of  despotism  concur  in  its 
destruction.  Soon  the  French  Repuljlic  will  have  no  other  worship  but 
that  of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Eternal  Truth,  a  worship  which  soon  will 
be  universal,  tlianks  to  our  immortal  labors."     (Applause.) 

The  Bishop  then  publicly  demits  his  office  and  accepts  the  worship  of 
Reason. 

Chaumette.     "The  day  when  reason  resumes  its  empire,  deserves  a 


3S0  JOURXALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

place  in  the  brilliant  epoch  of  the  French  Revolution.  I  at  this  moment 
offer  a  petition,  that  in  our  new  calendar  a  place  be  given  to  the  Day  of 
Heason."    (Applause.)* 

The  President  (addressing  the  Priests).  "  Citizens,  the  example  you 
have  given  us  are  the  effects  of  philosophy  to  enlighten  the  mind.  Citi- 
zens, who  come  to  sacrifice  these  ornaments  on  the  altars  of  your  coun- 
try, you  are  worthy  of  the  Republic  I  Citizens,  who  come  to  abjure 
error,  hereafter  you  will  only  wish  to  preach  tlie  practice  of  virtue  ;  tliis 
is  tlie  worship  which  the  Supreme  Being  finds  agreeable;  you  are 
worthy  of  him." 

The  members  overwhelm  the  priests  with  transports;  they  give  a 
red  cap  to  Gobel,  who  puts  it  on  (prolonged  applause,  with  cries,  "The 
embrace  to  the  Bishop  of  Paris").  The  President  gives  him  the  embrace. 
(The  applause  redoubles.) 

In  Commune,  Xov.  10. — "  The  artists  of  the  opera  thank  the  CouncQ 
for  its  invitation  to  participate  in  the  the  fete  of  Reason,  in  the  late 
Metropolitan  Church,  where  will  be  offered  to  Liberty  the  remainder  of 
the  prejudices  of  fanaticism." 

"  A  minister  of  the  Cathohc  worship  deposits  with  the  Commune  his 
credentials,  and  asks  his  name  to  be  changed  from  Erasmus  to  Apostate." 
(Granted.) 

"  The  Commune  ordered  that  those  Sections  which  have  renounced  all 
worship  save  that  of  Libertj'-,  should  take  possession  of  the  parapher- 
nalia in  each  church,  and  report  to  the  Commission  on  Public  Buildings, 
which  is  authorized  to  sell  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  public  treasury." 

*  On  the  12th  of  the  next  April,  Chiiuiiu'ttc  and  Gobel,  who  now  stand  together  in 
the  Convention,  stood  side  by  side  in  tlu'  cart,  bound  for  the  I'btce  <le  la  devolution. 
They  were  executed  on  a  cliarfce  of  atheism,  and  the  \ery  speeches  made  on  this  occa- 
sion were  evidence  ajjainst  them.  We  give  an  extract  from  (yobel's  speech  :  "IJorn  a 
plebeian,  I  had  early  the  lovo  of  liberty  and  equality.  The  will  of  the  people  was-iuy 
first  law,  the  submission  of  my  will  my  first  duty.  That  will  has  raised  me  to  the 
Episcopal  seat  of  Poiis.  My  conscience  told  me  that  when  obedient  to  the  people  I 
had  never  been  ilecelved.  I  have  improved  the  inlluence  thus  given  me  to  increase 
the  people's  love  for  liberty  and  equality,  but  now,  as  liberty  marclies  onward  with 
resistless  pace,  all  my  .sentiments  centre  in  tliis,  th.at  there  should  be  no  worship  but 
that  of  Liberty  and  Equality.  I  renounce  my  functions  of  minister  of  the  Catholic 
worsliip;  my  vie.ars  malie  the  same  declaration.  Wc  lay  on  your  bureaus  our  cre- 
dentials; may  this  example  eonsolidafe  the  reign  of  liberty  and  equality — Five  la 
HepiUiiiqu^  /'"    Great  and  unaiiiininis  applause  from  all  members. 


LIBERTY,  PHILOSOPHY,  AXD  REASON.  381 

Ou  motion  of  Chaumette,  "The  Commune  ordered  that  the  Revo- 
lutionary orders,  anti-ecclesiastical,  should  be  translated  into  Itahan, 
and  sent  immediately  to  the  Pope,  in  order  to  heal  him  of  his  errors." 

Nov.  1.^.  "The  Sections  des  Lombards,  des  Droits  de  I'homme,  and  of 
la  ladiBisibilit",  declare  to  the  Commune  that  they  wish  no  other  worship 
than  that  of  Liberty,  sound  Philosophy,  and  of  Reason.  They  have 
closed  the  churches,  and  bear  to  the  Convention,  to  lay  on  the  altar  of 
their  country,  all  the  finery  which  fed  the  pride  of  the  so-caUed  interpre- 
ters of  Divinity." 

"Citizen  Wart  deposits  his  priestly  credentials,  and  declares  that, 
wishing  to  be  engaged  in  a  manner  the  most  useful  to  society,  he  had 
for  the  past  year  taken  up  the  trade  of  a  joiner." 

"  The  Section  De  la  Cite  demands  that  its  name  be  changed  to  that 
of  Reason." 

Nov.  14.  "A  member  makes  honorable  mention  of  the  patriotic  zeal  of 
certain  Jews,  in  bringing  their  religious  ornaments  and  rehcs,  among 
which  is  that  famous  cope  (ephod),  which  they  say  belonged  to  Moses." 

"Hebert  presented  to  the  Commune  various  rehcs,  among  which  were 
a  fragment  of  the  robe  of  the  Virgin,  made  of  douUe  taffeta  silk,  tliree 
Apostles'  eyes,  made  of  rosin,  and  a  piece  of  the  rod  which  Aaron  used  in 
making  water  flow  out  of  the  rock.  Also,  a  great  number  of  the  bones 
of  the  most  renowned  saints." 

"Ordered,  that  these  venerated  gew-gaws  be  laid  aside  until  enough 
are  gathered  for  a  bonfire." 

"Chaumette  announces  that  the  Section  oi Bonne  Nouvelle  has  ordered 
a  course  de  morale,  for  each  DCcadi,  when,  at  tlie  hour  of  mass,  they  will 
have  a  patriotic  discourse." 

"  On  the  proposition  of  a  member,  the  Commune  orders  that  the  de- 
partments be  invited  to  batter  down  tlie  steeples,  since,  by  their  eleva- 
tion over  other  structures,  they  appear  contrary  to  the  principles  of 
equahty." 

In  Commune,  18th  Nov.  "  The  Section  des  Marches,  and  others,  declare 
that,  yielding  worship  to  Reason,  they  have  shut  the  churches  of  their 
arnmdissement,  and  carried  off  all  the  effects  which  served  to  strengthen 
error  and  superstition.     The  Section  of  Quinze-Vingfs  offers  certain  orna- 


382  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

ments  of  worship,  and  among  other  relics  the  famous  shirt  of  St.  Louis, 
vrhich  on  examiuation  proves  to  be  only  a  woman's  chemise.^' 

"  Dubarran  reads  a  letter,  announcing  that  Reason  has  great  success 
in  the  department  of  Gers;  many  priests  have  been  unpriested,  their 
crosses  have  been  destroj^ed,  and  fanaticism  and  fanatics  are  levelled." 

"  A  ci-devant  ecclesiastic  of  Soissons,  who  has  got  married,  demands 
that  all  his  confreres  be  required  to  abjure  a  vow  which  outrages 
nature." 

Nov.  25. — "3,471  are  reported  in  the  various  prisons." 

"  In  the  programme  of  the  fete  of  Reason,  it  is  required  that  there  bo 
in  the  Temple  of  Reason  two  large  and  commodious  Tribunes,  one  for 
old  men,  the  other  iovfemmes  enceintes,  with  these  inscriptions — ^Respect 
a  la  rieiUessef  ^Respect  et  soins  auxfemmes  enceintes.^  " 

Reason  and  bloodshed. — Report  from  Lyons:  "The  Revolutionary 
Tribunal  is  in  all  its  vigor,  and  nothing  escapes  its  vigilance.  Ten 
members  of  the  municipality  have  had  their  heads  cut  ofl'  at  the  place 
where  the  virtuous  Challier  reposes.  Yesterday  a  fete  was  celebrated 
to  his  honor.  The  ceremony  was  imposing,  and  fanaticism  was  laid 
low.  The  first  personage  was  an  ass,  decorated  with  pontifical  harness, 
and  on  its  head  a  mitre;  within  three  days  we  have  caused  twenty-one 
heads  to  fall  by  the  guillotine,  besides  the  daily /?<>//^at/e.s." 

Again :  "  Citizen-President,  I  send  you  a  second  list  of  the  guillotined ; 
the  total  number  up  to  this  day  is  three  hundred.  No  doubt  the  Na- 
tional Convention  will  see  with  pleasure  the  activity  with  which  tlie 
Tri))unal  avenges  the  manes  of  the  patriots  murdered  in  this  new  Sodom. 
A  much  grander  act  of  justice  is  yet  in  preparation :  four  or  five  hundred 
counter-revolutionists  will  one  of  these  days  expiate  their  crimes.  Light- 
ning will  purify  the  earth  at  a  single  stroke.  May  this  fete  impress  ter- 
ror forever  in  the  souls  of  the  wretches,  and  confidence  in  the  hearts  of 
revolutionists  1  I  say  fite,  Citizen-President ;  yes,  fete  is  the  proper 
word.  When  crime  falls  to  the  tomb,  humanity  breathes  free,  and  it  is 
the  fite  of  justice." 

From  Strasburg:  "The  Revolutionary  Tribunal  which  we  have  estab- 
lished for  the  judging  of  monopolists,  agitators,  and  tradesmen,  who  do 
not  conform  to  the  tax,  has  already  made  useful  examples.     Many  have 


LAST  SPEECH  OF  ANACHARSIS  CLOOTZ.  oSS 

been  condemned  to  pay  fines  of  from  50,000  to  100,000  lirres,  and  some 
to  chains.  We  need  some  punishment  in  order  to  destroy  cupidity, 
which  is  worse  here  than  in  any  other  town  in  the  Repubhc ;  but  the 
Trihu7ial  spares  no  one,  and  Ca  ira." 

Again,  20th  of  December,  report  from  Lyons  read  in  the  Convention: 
"Sixty  criminals  were  put  to  death  by  fusillade  on  the  14th;  on  the 
15th,  two  hundred  and  eight  others  received  the  same  punishment." 

In  Convention — Anacharsis  Clootz's  last  self-glorification.  We  quote 
from  his  speech  concerning  liis  book:  "This  singular  work,  by  its 
method,  its  tactics,  and  curious  developments,  saps  at  a  single  blow  all 
sects  of  revealed  religion,  ancient  and  modern.  It  is  entitled,  '  The  Cer- 
tainty of  the  Evidence  of  Mohammedanism,'  because  I  throw  a  Mussulman 
between  the  legs  of  other  sects,  and  they  all  tumble  one  upon  the  other. 
My  book  holds  the  place  of  a  vast  library.  I  rejoice  to  have  been  perse- 
cuted by  an  archbishop  of  Paris,  when  I  urged  the  clergy  of  France  to 
abjure  a  doctrine  against  which  I  launched  my  book,  ten  years  before  the 
fall  of  the  Bastile. 

"I  owe  it  to  my  continual  voyages  and  my  cosmopolitan  independence 
that  I  have  escaped  tlie  vengeance  of  tyrants,  both  sacred  and  profane. 
I  was  in  Rome  when  they  wanted  to  jail  me  in  Paris,  and  I  was  in  Lon- 
don when  they  wanted  to  burn  me  in  Lisbon.  It  is  by  moving  like  a 
shuttle  from  one  part  of  Europe  to  another,  that  I  have  escaped  sbirri, 
alguazils,  and  pohce.  At  last  comes  the  Revolution,  and  finds  me  in  my 
element ;  for,  as  Brutus  says,  '  It  is  hberty,  not  locality,  that  makes  the 
citizen.'  My  wanderings  ceased  when  the  emigration  of  scelcrats  com- 
menced. Regenerated  Paris  was  tlie  post  for  the  orator  of  mankind.  I 
have  remained  here  since  1789,  and  since  then  have  redoubled  my  zeal 
against  the  pretended  sovereigns  of  earth  and  heaven.  I  have  preached 
earnestly  that  there  was  no  other  God  than  Nature — no  other  sovereign  than 
the  human  race — the  people  GodP^ 

Alas  1  the  poor  wanderer  will  never  leave  Paris — Ms  fate  is  already 
sealed ;  and  this  boasted  Atheism  will  be  one  of  Robespierre's  charges 
against  him. 

Youthful  prodigy.— In  Convention:  "They  lift  up  a  young  lad;  he 
demands  the  fraternal  kiss,  in  order  that  he  may  give  it  in  turn  to  the 


3Si  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

youth  of  his  own  age.  He  promises,  both  for  himself  and  for  them,  to 
imitate  the  fine  examples  which  the  defenders  of  the  people  have  given. 
His  speech  received  applause.  They  bear  the  lad  to  the  President,  and 
he  receives  the  fraternal  kiss.  ■  The  President  then  exclaims :  '  I  ought 
to  inform  the  Assembly  of  what  tliis  lad  has  told  me.  He  has  recited 
tlie  Declaration  of  tlie  Rights  of  Man,  which  he  has  by  heart.  He  asked 
me  when  the  Assembly  would  make  a  catechism  for  youth :  he  burns  to 
learn  it.'  " 

The  address  of  the  youth  of  the  School  of  Mars  exhibits  a  stiU  more 
vivid  enthusiasm : 

"  Citizens  1  we  rush  to  your  bosom  with  the  outpouring  of  a  sentimen- 
tal soul,  and  the  tenderness  of  recognition,  to  offer  our  hearts  and  our 
arms  to  a  society  celebrated  for  its  virtues  and  its  heroism.  Men  incor- 
ruptible I  Republicans  well  approved  1  you  have  been  the  Aurora  of  the 
Revolution — the  Boulevard  of  Liberty — the  terror  of  Tyrants — the 
shield  of  the  oppressed — and  the  firm  support  of  innocence.  This  day, 
superior  even  to  yourselves  and  to  your  age,  you  will  honor  misfortune, 
respect  the  aged,  encourage  the  arts,  and  illuminate  this  generation,  en- 
slaved by  prejudice,  superstition,  and  fanaticism.  Accept  our  thanks ; 
accept  our  oath  to  conquer  our  passions,  to  love  probity  and  benevo- 
lence, tc  equal  tlie  Spartans  in  republican  virtue,  and  to  surpass  the 
Romans  in  courage. 

"  Heaven  aids  us.  Already  foreign  nations  efface  the  rust  of  antique 
servitude,  and  wait  for  the  Decii  of  France.  Posterity  will  cover  our 
tombs  with  the  flowers  of  friendship  and  the  laurels  of  victory,  and 
sprinkle  them  with  the  tears  of  emotion  1" 

(Applause,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  President  gives  tlae  speaker  the 
fraternal  embrace.) 

The  address  of  the  Section  of  Marat,  though  offered  by  men,  is  full  as 
puerile  as  the  foregoing : 

"Legislators!  let  them  tremble  who  meditate  the  ruin  of  the  Re- 
public. We  have  sworn  in  our  hearts  the  inviolable  oath,  to  prove  to 
the  universe  that  the  shores  of  the  Seine  are  peopled  by  men  as  brave 
as  those  whom  we  admire  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber.  "We  have  our 
Horatii,  our  Fabii,  our  Cincinuatuscs,  and  they  understand  liow  to  save 


DANTON  SUSPECTED.  385 

Rome.  We  know  that  three  hundred  Spartans,  by  their  glorious  death, 
precipitated  the  fall  of  the  Asiatic  tyrant.  Very  well !  we  swear  before 
you  that  the  sublime  inscription  of  Thermopyke  will  be  ours,"  etc.,  etc. 

In  Convention :  "  Two  couples,  married  yesterday,  present  themselves, 
and  ask  admission  to  the  session ;  they  prefer,  instead  of  the  ordinary 
way,  to  assist  in  the  deliberations  of  the  friends  of  Liberty,  because  they 
wish  to  educate  their  children  in  these  principles.  They  are  admitted, 
and  receive  the  President's  embrace." 

Chaumette  suspected. — In  Commune,  November  25th.  Chaumette 
speaks :  "  You  must  have  learned  what  passed  at  the  Committee  of  Pub- 
lic Security  relative  to  Pache,  Hebert,  and  me.  They  told  Hebert  that 
it  was  Pache  and  I ;  and  they  told  me  that  it  was  Pache  and  Hebert. 
Innocence  and  truth  wiU  break  through  these  dark  plots,  and  find  zeal- 
ous defenders.  Robespierre  is  one  of  these :  the  energy  of  patriotism 
animates  him — already  the  Society  of  Jacobins  has  purified  itself" 

(Chaumette  little  tliinks  that  Robespierre  has  fixed  his  doom,  and  will 
have  him  guillotined  in  a  few  months.) 

Danton  suspected.^In  Jacobin  Club,  December  6th.  Robespierre 
exclaims:  "Danton!  thou  art  accused  of  emigration;  they  say  of  thy 
journey  into  Switzerland,  that  thy  illness  was  a  feint  to  hide  thy  flight ; 
they  say  thy  ambition  was  to  become  Regent  under  Louis  XVII. ;  that 
thou  wast  the  chief  of  the  conspiracy — that  neither  Pitt,  nor  Coburg, 
nor  Austria,  nor  Prussia,  were  our  real  enemies,  but  that  it  was  thou 
thyself" 

The  Jacobin  Club  purifying  itself  in  extraordinary  session,  December 
16th :  "  Coupe  is  refused  admission,  on  the  score  of  having  been  a  priest, 
and  is  still  a  celibate." 

Casa  Bianca  is  excluded  because  he  did  not  vote  for  the  death  of  the 
King. 

Robespierre  is  passed  in  with  great  applause.  Duhem  is  rejected  on 
Robespierre's  objections.  The  members  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal, 
Fouquier  Tinville,  accuser ;  Fleuriot,  his  deputy ;  Herman,  its  president ; 
and  Dumas,  vice-president,  are  passed  in  on  Robespierre's  recommenda- 
tion. 

Camille  Desmoulins  is  accused  of  having  shown  tenderness  (sensibilite) 

-17 


386  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OP  TERROR. 

on  the  execution  of  the  twenty-two  deputies  (the  Girondins),  and  his 
admission  is  opposed  on  this  ground.  In  reply  to  this  charge,  he  an- 
swers: "A  striking  fataUty  has  followed  sixty  persons  who  signed  my 
marriage-contract,  of  whom  there  only  remain  two,  Robespierre  and 
Danton.  All  the  rest  are  either  emigrated  or  guillotined,  and  of  the 
latter  are  the  twenty-two  deputies.  A  turn  of  sensihilitc  was  therefore 
truly  pardonable  on  such  an  occasion." 

Robespierre  pleads  for  Camille,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  but  a  weak- 
ness, and  he  passes  in  (but  he  is  a  doomed  man  notwithstanding). 

Anacharsis  Clootz  appears.  He  has  been  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
club — has  been  its  president ;  but  now  is  charged  with  two  crimes — 
foreign  birth,  and  intimacy  with  the  guillotined  bankers,  Vandcrneyver 
and  sons. 

Robespierre  speaks,  in  his  soft  and  cutting  manner:  "Citizens,  can 
we  regard  as  a  patriot  a  German  baron  ?  Can  we  consider  a  man  to  be 
a  Sans-Culotte  whose  income  is  more  than  100,000  Uvres?  Can  we  be- 
hove a  man  to  be  a  Republican  who  Uves  only  with  bankers  and  counter- 
revolutionists  ?  No,  citizens !  let  us  sot  a  guard  on  these  strangers  who 
are  more  patriotic  than  the  French  themselves.  Clootz,  thou  passest 
thy  hfe  with  strangers — with  the  agents  and  spies  of  foreign  powers. 
Like  them,  thou  art  a  traitor,  whom  we  must  watch.  Citizens,  Clootz 
has  tried  to  explain  this.  He  knew  the  Vanderneyvers,  and  he  knew 
them  as  counter-revolutionists.  He  assures  you  that  he  ceased  their 
acquaintance,  but  this  is  only  a  Prussian  trick.  Why,  then,  Clootz,  if 
thou  knewest  them  for  counter-revolutionists,  didst  thou  seek  to  have 
them  set  at  liberty  ?     Speak,  if  thou  hast  any  thing  to  say  I 

"I  accuse  Clootz  of  increasing  the  number  of  federalists :  his  expre.«sed 
opinions — his  persistence  in  speaking  of  a  Universal  Bepuhlic,  has  inspired 
a  rage  for  conquest,  and  produced  the  same  effect  as  the  writings  of 
Brissot.  Disdaining  the  title  of  citizen  of  France,  he  took  that  of 
citizen  of  the  world ;  indeed,  had  he  been  a  good  Frenchman,  he  would 
not  have  attempted  the  conquest  of  the  Universe.  Could  these  ideas 
of  pretended  philosophy  enter  into  tlie  head  of  a  mau  of  sense,  much 
less  of  a  patriot  ? 

"  Citizens,  can  you  regard  as  a  patriot,  a  stranger  who  is  more  demo- 


VICTIMS  OF  THE  JACOBINS.  387 

cratic  than  Frenchmen,  and  whom  you  see  at  one  time  in  the  marsh,  at 
another  above  the  mountain  f  For  Clootz  was  never  of  the  movMain.  He 
was  always  underneath  or  above  it.* 

"Alas!  unfortunate  patriots,  what  can  we  do,  surrounded  by  enemies 
who  battle  in  our  very  ranks  ?  They  cover  themselves  with  a  mask ; 
they  tear  us  to  pieces :  we  see  the  wounds,  but  not  the  murderers. 
We  can  do  nothing  more:  our  mission  is  finished.  Let  us  watch,  fur 
the  death  of  our  country  is  at  hand. 

"  Ah !  I  do  not  care  for  the  death  of  patriots ;  they  ought  to  make  the 
sacrifice ;  but,  alas !  that  of  the  country  is  inevitable  if  these  neglects 
be  permitted.  Foreign  powers  are  in  the  midst,  their  spies,  their  minis- 
ters, and  their  police;  but  we  have  the  people,  who  wish  to  be  free." 

Clootz  is  rejected  at  once. 

Dec.  16.  Work  of  tlie  guillotine.  Jean  Baptiste  Vanderneyver,  aged  66, 
and  his  sons  Edme  Jean,  aged  32,  and  Antoine  August,  aged  29,  bank- 
ers (above  referred  to),  convicted  of  conspiracj'-,  etc.,  etc.,  were  con- 
demned at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  and  executed  at  four  o'clock  the  next 
afternoon. 

^   Chabot,  formerly  chief  witness   against  the   Girondins,  writes  from 
prison,  complaining  of  the  treatment  of  his  sister : 

"  They  have  arrested  one  of  my  fellow-citizens  just  as  he  went  to 
console  my  wife  and  my  sister  for  the  absence  of  one  who  is  most  dear. 
On  the  29tli  they  submitted  my  sister  to  an  examination  as  though  she 
had  been  a  criminal,  and  gave  her  all  manner  of  suffering. 

"  Yesterday  they  basely  demand  of  the  police  that  she  be  not  allowed 
to  go  out  even  for  business.  The  Hebertists  are  more  audacious  thau 
the  Brissotines.  Representatives,  respect  the  mother  of  nine  cliiklren, 
who  has  no  other  crime  than  that  of  being  my  sister." 

The  year  1794  opened  with  fearful  signs  of  doubt  and  terror.  The 
Moniieur  of  January  announces  "that  Thomas  Paine  and  Anacharsis 
Clootz  have  been  arrested,  and  their  papers  put  under  seal." 

*  The  term  La  Plaine  was  applied  to  the  moderate  opponents  of  the  Girondins; 
M'hile  Le  Marat.%  or  the  marsh,  was  used  to  designate  others  who  were  still  more  lax 
in  their  theories.  The  Mountain,  having  destroyed  tlie  Girondins,  began  an  attack  on 
La  Plaine  and  Le  Maralft. 


888  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

In  the  issue  of  January  5th  we  read  of  stormy  scenes  in  the  Jacobin 
Club,  where  a  fresh  denunciation  is  uttered  against  one  of  its  own 
leaders.  This  is  none  other  than  Camille  Desmouhns,  the  young,  the 
eloquent,  and  the  beautiful,  once  the  bosom  friend  of  Robespierre,  who, 
while  he  assumes  his  defence,  has  marked  him  for  the  scaffold  notwith- 
standing. 

Hebert  exclaims:  "There  be  many  deeds  which  demand  justice 
against  Camille.  All  that  could  be  alleged  against  Brissot  does  not 
approach  that  which  can  be  charged  against  Camille.  His  object  has 
always  been  to  ridicule  and  calumniate  patriots.  This  is  the  Camille 
who  said  loftily,  '  that  tlie  nobles  were  necessary ;  that  they  were  the 
only  educated  class.'  It  is  necessary  to  protect  the  patriots  thus  slan- 
dered. Some  accuse  me  of  being  a  counter-revolutionist;  let  them 
examine  my  conduct.  If  they  find  me  guilty,  I  refuse  not  to  lay  my 
Jiead  on  the  scaffold." 

Hebert  was  called  to  do  this  much  sooner  than  he  could  have 
dreamed.  In  three  months  the  accuser  of  Camille  went  to  the  axe 
under  Robespierre's  orders,  and,  what  is  more  remarkable,  he  perished 
a  week  earlier  than  the  man  whom  he  now  murderously  denounces.      0 

Robespierre  formerly  defended  his  friend  with  well-feigned  kindness, 
although  it  is  he — for  it  could  be  no  one  else — who  has  ordered  Hebert 
to  attack  him,  and  now  he  sustains  that  attack  by  the  following  vein  of 
biting  sarcasm : 

Robespierre.  "It  is  some  time  since  I  have  taken  the  defence  of  Ca- 
mille. I  will  now  make  some  reflections  on  his  cliaracter,such  as  friendship 
must  permit.  Camille  has  promised  to  abjure  his  heresies  ;  but  he  has 
not  done  so.  Camille  has  a  passionate  love  for  Phillopoteaux.  Nothing 
is  sublime  but  the  works  of  Pliillopoteaux.  He  is  his  hero.  He  is  his 
Don  Quixote.  Camille  is  an  admirer  of  the  ancients.  Cicero  and 
Demosthenes  are  his  delight.  The  resemblance  of  the  names  has 
turned  his  head.  Camille  thinks,  in  reading  Phillopoteaux,  that  he  is 
reading  the  Philippics  of  Demosthenes;  but  let  him  not  be  mistaken. 
The  old  Greek  wrote  Phihppics,  but  Phillopoteaux  only  writes  PhiUopo- 
tiques.  Camille  lias  much  of  the  naivete  of  La  Fontaine.  They  say  that 
the  latter,  reading  the  prophets  one  day  to  a  lady  who  knew  of  the  Bible 


COXDITION  OP  THE  PRISON'S.  3S9 

but  little,  said,  '  Have  you  read  Baruch  ?  Zounds,  was  he  not  a  great 
man?'  'Baruch P  she  exclaimed,  'who  is  this  Baruch?'  Yery  well; 
Desmoulins  takes  all  who  jjass  by  the  neck,  and  demands,  '  Have  you 
read  Plullopoteaux  ?'  and  the  reply  is,  'Phillopoteaux!  who  is  this  Phillo- 
poteaux  ?'  Camille  is  a  spoiled  child  who  has  a  good  disposition,  but 
bad  companions  have  misled  him.  I  demand  that  his  writings  be 
burned." 

Camille  (who  feels  his  doom).  "That's  well  said,  Robespierre,  but  I 
reply  to  thee  in  the  words  of  Rousseau,  '  to  hum  is  not  to  answer.'' " 

Robespierre.  "  Listen,  Camille !  if  thou  wert  not  Camille,  one  could 
not  have  so  much  indulgence  for  thee ;  the  manner  is  bad,  the  intentions 
worse;  but  can  the  quotation  find  application  here?" 

Camille.  "  Robespierre,  thou  dost  not  understand  me.  How  can  you 
say  that  only  aristocrats  read  my  journal  {Le  Vlmx  Cordelier)?  The 
Convention  reads  it,  the  Mountain  reads  it :  are  these  aristocrats  ?  Thou 
condemnest  me  here,  but  have  I  not  read  my  journal  to  thee  at  thy 
house,  and  conjured  thee  in  the  name  of  friendship  to  aid  me  by  thy 
advice,  and  to  point  out  the  path  that  I  should  follow?" 

Camille  struggles  in  vain  against  his  enemy.  His  arrest  and  execu- 
tion soon  follow. 

A.  girl  at  the  Commune.  "  A  young  girl  aged  six  years  mounted  th^ 
Tribune,  and  recited  many  stanzas  of  a  patriotic  nature  which  she  had 
by  heart  To  a  sonorous  voice  she  added  the  art  of  declamation." 
(Applause.) 

February  12.  More  suspicion.  "  The  Judge  of  the  peace  of  Tarascon, 
afhnitted  to  the  bar,  denounced  an  infernal  cabal  among  the  partisans  of 
Barbaroux,  under  the  guise  of  an  exaggerated  patriotism." 

Condition  of  the  prisons.  January  6,  4,659  prisoners;  14th  January, 
5,030  ;  February  21,  5,540;  March  11,  6,064;  April  2,  6,863;  April  11, 
•7,007;  April  I7th,  7,541;   25th,  7,764. 

In  Commune  o?  Paris.  "A  butcher  is  denounced  for  monopohzing 
candles  to  the  value  of  2,350  livres.  Another  citizen  has  been  surprised 
•with  400  Uvres  worth  of  candles.  These  suspected  men  have  been  put 
under  arrest." 

"The  Revolutionary  Committee  of  the  Section  Montagnc  denounces 


390  JOURXALISM  IN  THE  REIGX  OF  TERROR. 

the  traitorous  restaurateurs  of  the  Palais  de  VEgalitc,  who  have  only 
changed  their  name,  and  might  still  be  called  the  Palais  Royal,  on 
account  of  the  insolent  luxury  they  maintain.  There  we  find  the  res- 
taurateurs who  have  abundance  of  all  kinds  for  the  rich,  at  excessive 
rates,  and  these  sumptuous  feasts  enable  traitors  to  elude  the  law." 

Complaint  is  also  made  of  the  butchers  who  sell  tidbits  to  the  rich, 
and  will  not  sell  meat  except  to  tlwse  wlio  have  money. 

March  IG.  Fouquier  announces  "to  the  Committee  of  Pubhc  Safety 
(which  included  Robespierre),  that,  agreeably  to  orders,  he  has  arrested 
HEBERT  and  MORMORO,  and  others.  Couthon  announces  to  the 
Committee  '  a  new  conspiracy  to  depopularize  Robespierre  and  to  elevate 
H>^bert.'  " 

Barrere.  "The  Revolutionary  Tribunal,  the  friend  of  the  people  and 
the  Revolution,  will  do  justice  to  the  conspirators  who  are  attempting 
our  liberty.  Go  to-day  through  the  streets  of  Paris — you  shall  know 
the  aristocrats  by  their  long  faces." 

Couthon.  "  Yes,  in  times  of  Revolution  all  good  citizens  should  be 
physiognomists.  It  is  by  physiognomy  that  you  know  a  traitor,  espe- 
cially one  who  has  accomplices  in  the  hand  of  Justice.  These  fellows 
have  a  haggard  eye,  an  air  of  consternation,  and  a  base  gallows  look, 
fjrood  citizens,  arrest  these  fellows." 

Barrere.  "  What  ought  one  to  think  on  seeing  these  men,  with  their 
huge  moustaches  and  long  sabres,  insulting  good  citizens,  and,  above  all, 
the  Representatives  of  the  people  ?  They  look  on  them  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  If  you  open  your  mouth  to  say  a  single  word  I  will  extermiuato 
you.'  This  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes."  (Many  voices,  "Yes, 
yes,  we  have  seen  it.") 

REPORTS  OF  THE  NEW  CONSPIRACY  NOW  ELECTRIFY  PARIS. 

March  18.  "Tlie  Section  du  Pantheon  goes  in  mass  to  felicitate  tlio 
Convention  on  the  energy  with  whicli  it  strikes  tlie  new  enemies  of  the 
Republic,  and  invites  it  to  redouble  its  vigUance." 

Congratulation  also  from  the  Convention,  on  its  energy  in  breaking 
up  the  new  conspiracies. 

Execution  Extraordinary— Moniteur,  March  25.—"  HEBERT,  MOR- 


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WHOLESALE  EXECUTION  OF  JACOBINS.  391 

MORO,  Anacharsis  Clootz,  and  their  accomplices,  have  been  executed  at 
five  o'clock,  at  the  Place  cle  la  Revolution.  A  prodigious  concourse  of  citi- 
zens filled  the  streets  through  which  they  passed.  Cries  of  Vive  la  Re- 
puUique  and  applause  throughout.  This  testimony  of  the  indignation  of 
the  people  against  the  men  who  had  assailed  the  public  safety,  was  pro- 
portionate to  the  extreme  confidence  in  those  who  had  detected  them. 
The  public  satisfaction  was  mingled  with  profound  indignation.  It  was 
a  new  proof  of  the  love  of  citizens  for  a  Republic  saved  by  the  punish- 
ment of  these  great  culprits.  Thus  let  all  perish  who  dare  attempt  the 
re-establishment  of  tyranny." 

The  agony  culminates  rapidly. 

April  1. — "  Danton  and  others  denounced;  their  accusation  is  moved." 

April  4. — "Appearance  at  the  Tribunal  of  the  following  remarkable 
group:  Fabre  D'Eglantine,  aged  39;  F.  Chabot,  38;  Herault  de  Se- 
chelles,  34;  G.  J.  Danton,  34;  Camille  Desmoulins,  33;  P.  Phillopo- 
teaux,  35,  and  others. 

"Fabre  occupied  the  chief  seat;  he  appeared  in  a  state  of  suffering. 
Camille,  having  seen  Renaudin  among  the  jurors,  offered  challenge,  but 
the  Tribunal  refused,  since  the  demand  should  have  been  made  at  an 
earUer  hour,  and  in  writing." 

"  The  same  Camille,  being  asked  his  age,  rephed,  '  /  am  tJie  age  of  the 
Sans-Cidotte  Jesris — thirty-three.''  " 

"  Danton,  being  asked  his  abode  and  his  history,  replies:  '  My  abode 
will  soon  be  nothing,  {neanl) ;  as  for  my  name,  you  wiU  find  it  in  the 
Pantheon  of  history.' " 

Of  Chabot,  who  had  poisoned  himself,  it  is  stated  that  "the  antidote 
worked  effectually;  his  voice  is  not  altered." 

April  6. — "  The  above  were  executed  at  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  at 
half-past  five." 

On  10th  of  April  another  fournee  appears,  in  which  we  read  the  names 
of  the  widow  Hebert,  of  Lucille  DesmouUns  (widow  of  Camille),  of 
Bishop  Gobel,  of  Paris,  aged  67,  and,  chiefest  of  aU,  of  GASPARD 
CHAUMETTE  (called  Anaxagoras),  aged  31. 

"  In  the  act  of  accusation  which  Fouquier  Tin  villa  presents  against 
these  unfortunates,   Gobel   and   Chaumette  are  charged  with  having 


392  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

united  with  Hebert,  Clootz,  and  others,  to  efface  all  idea  of  the  Divinity, 
and  with  a  desire  to  found  the  Government  of  France  on  atheism,  and 
to  destroy  even  the  idea  of  an  Etre  Supreme.  They  were  convicted  on 
the  11th,  and  guillotined  the  same  day,  at  six  in  the  evening."* 

On  the  18th  Floreal  (7th  May),  Robespierre  brings  out  the  worship  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  in  his  grand  speech  in  the  Convention,  fiUing  eleven 
columns.  The  programme  is  thus  announced  in  the  Moniteur :  "The 
people  are  eager  to  ornament  and  celebrate  the  fete  of  Divinity.  Tliere 
will  be  seen  tri-colored  bandrols  on  the  houses  and  porches,  orna- 
mented with  green  festoons.  The  chaste  spouse  braids  with  flowers 
her  daughter's  floating  hair,  and  the  babe  at  its  mother's  breast,  of 
which  it  is  the  most  beautiful  ornament.  .  .  .  The  National  Conven- 
tion, preceded  by  music,  wUl  be  seen  at  the  Tribune ;  in  the  centre,  the 
President  (Robespierre)  appears  in  the  midst  of  an  amphitheatre.  He 
makes  us  feel  the  motives  which  have  determined  this  solemn  fete.  He 
invites  the  people  to  honor  the  Author  of  Nature.  The  people  make 
the  air  resound  with  shouts,  like  the  noise  of  a  storm  at  sea. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  amphitheatre  stands  a  monument,  on  which 
are  gathered  ail  the  enemies  of  pubhc  happiness :  the  grievous  monster 
of  Atheism,  sustained  by  Ambition,  Egotism,  Discord,  and  False  Simpli- 
city, which  in  the  midst  of  the  rags  of  Misery  reveals  the  ornaments  of 
the  slaves  of  Royalty.  The  President  approaches,  holding  in  his  hands 
a  fire-brand ;  he  apphes  it  to  the  group ;  it  returns  to  notliing  as  fast  as 
the  conspirators  who  have  fallen  beneath  the  sword  of  the  law.  On 
the  ruins  arises  "Wisdom,  with  a  calm  aspect;  at  her  appearance  tears  of 
joy  appear  in  all  eyes.  It  consoles  the  good,  whom  atheism  would 
drive  to  despair.  The  Daughter  of  Heaven  appears  to  say,  '  People  I 
render  homage  to  the  Author  of  Nature.  Respect  the  immutable  de- 
crees I'  "  Etc.,  etc. 

*  Ttobosi)ioiTe.  luivin?  detomiinert  to  destroy  Ilchert  and  his  friend  Chanmette.  to- 
gether w\X,\\  Clootz  and  nisho])  Gobel.  eoneeived  the  charf;e  of  atheism  airainst  them. 
It  is  evident  tliat  lie  felt  the  irreat  l:M;k  of  that  rcligrious  element  which  aided  Crom- 
well and  other  liepublicans,  anil  determined  to  reproduce  it  For  this  purixise  he 
charges  his  politiorJ  enemies  with  Aiheium,  while  at  tJie  sjvme  time  he  brings  out  the 
Kffe  ffupreme.  His  hope,  no  donbt,  was  to  have  the  aid  of  a  relisrious  enthusiastii, 
but  in  this  he  foiled,  for  Ids  coiieiption  of  the  Eire  Suprhne  was  too  chill  .and  abstract 
to  awaken  a  single  pulsation  among  the  hardened  mnsses  of  Paris. 


TRIBUNAL  REMODELLED.  393 

From  this  extract  the  reader  may  form  an  idea  of  the  six  columns  of 
rhapsody  which  depict  the  fete  of  the  Supreme  B^ing,  and  which  might 
apply  to  a  festival  of  Greek  or  Oriental  mythology. 

Robespierre's  speech,  as  President  of  the  day,  is  one  of  the  best  speci- 
mens of  his  oratory,  and  fills  eleven  columns. 

IN  JACOBIN  CLUB. 

"The  Society  of  St.  Genies  notifies  the  Jacobin  Club  that  it  has  ex- 
pelled from  its  bosom  the  corrupt  priests.  "Worshipper  of  Divinity !  love 
thy  neighbor ;  observe  the  law ;  this  is  the  religion  which  we  have  here- 
after. This  religion  has  no  need  of  priests  or  bishops,  to  whom  they 
used  to  give  an  abbey  for  knowing  notliing,  and  a  diocese  for  doing 
nothing."     (Applause.) 

The  Society  of  Fontainebleau  utters  the  following :  "A  magnanimous 
people,  which  has  destroyed  fanaticism,  recognizes  the  dogma  of  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  consecrated  to  the  great  work  of  revolution — to 
the  Author  of  Nature.  Has  he  not  already  proved  his  invincibility?  It 
is  tlie  Supreme  Being  who,  in  preserving  from  the  tomb  the  incorruptible 
Robespierre,  has  saved  the  Republic  from  an  eternal  mourning." 

In  Jacobin  Club. — "  Robespierre  denounces  the  Society  of  Nevers,  be- 
cause the/efe  of  the  Supreme  Being  was  a  failure,  and  they  continue  to 
preach  atlieism." 

Change  in  the  Tribunal,  11th  June. — "In  order  to  facilitate  the  work, 
Couthou  remodels  the  Tribunal,  which  is  re-established  in  the  following 
manner.  The  Revolutionary  Tribunal  shall  be  composed  of  one  presi- 
dent and  three  vice-presidents;  one  public  accuser  and  four  substitutes; 
twelve  judges  and  fifty  jurors.  The  necessary  proof  for  the  condemna- 
tion of  the  enemies  of  the  Republic,  is  documents  of  all  kinds,  whether 
material  or  moral,  verbal  or  written,  which  can  naturally  command  the 
assent  of  every  just  and  reasonable  spirit.  The  rule  of  judgment  is  the 
conscience  of  the  jurors,  enlightened  by  the  love  of  country — their  ob- 
ject is  the  triumph  of  the  Republic  and  the  ruin  of  its  enemies.  The 
procedure  is  the  simple  means  which  good  sense  indicates  to  arrive  at 
the  knowledge  of  the  truth.  If  there  exist  proofs  independent  of  the 
testimony  of  witnesses,  the  latter  shall  not  be  heard,  so  long  as  tlie  for- 

-"it* 


394  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR.   . 

mality  does  not  appear  necessary  to  discover  accomplices.  The  law 
given  for  the  defence  of  calumniated  patriots,  and  to  patriotic  jurors,  is 
not  accorded  to  conf^pirators. 

"The  Tribunal  shall  divide  itself  into  sections  of  twelve,  three  judges 
and  nine  jurors." 

From  this  we  learn  that  the  inauguration  of  the  Etre  Supreme  was 
only  the  signal  for  fresh  slaughter. 

Foreigners  at  the  Tribunal. — In  the  batch  of  June  14 :  Thomas  De- 
lanv,  aged  17,  and  Patrick  Roden,  aged  28,  both  Irishmen;  J.  Murdock, 
aged  29,  born  at  Edinburgh ;  and  "William  Newton,  aged  33,  from  Lon- 
don, are  convicted  of  conspiracy. 

June  23.  Robespierre's  life  having  been  (as  it  was  falsely  said)  at- 
tempted by  a  girl,  her  entire  family  appear  among  the  doomed :  A.  C. 
Renault,  aged  63 ;  A.  G.  Renault,  aged  30 ;  Anna  C.  Renault,  aged  20. 
Also,  "\'irot  Sombreuil,  the  father,  aged  74 ;  the  son,  of  same  name,  aged 
2G.  Also,  la  Sainie  Amaranth,  aged  17,*  and  others,  convicted  of  con- 
spiracy to  assassinate — to  create  fomine — the  depravation  of  public 
morals — the  opening  of  prisons,  etc.,  etc.  This  fournee  went  to  the  guil- 
lotine in  red  shirts,  the  dress  of  parricides,  on  account  of  the  attempt 
of  Renault  on  Robespierre. 

In  Convention  (Robespierre,  President). — Speech  of  deputation  from 
St.  Martin's :  "  We  have  learned  with  indignation  that  some  wretches 
have  attempted  your  lives ;  but  the  Supreme  Being,  who  watches  over 
the  destiny  of  the  Republic,  will  save  you  for  the  welfare  of  regenerated 
France.  It  is  in  vain  that  despots  cabal  against  Liberty.  Continue, 
sage  legislators,  and  soon  the  astonished  Universe,  contemplating  our 
glory  and  our  good  success,  which  are  your  work,  will  only  speak  with 
respect  of  the  French  people  and  their  worthy  representatives.  Vive  la 
lii'pnhUque .'"  (Applause.) 

June  30.  A  J'ourme  of  forty  is  sentenced,  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
lower  class  of  laboring  women.     It  is  remarkable  that  the  Tribunal 


*  The  history  of  the  loVely  Mademoiselle  Sainte  Amaranth  is  one  of  the  strangest 
of  the  strange  things  of  tliat  foiirful  time.  As  she  was  one  of  the  youngost,  so  also 
was  she  one  of  the  most  innocent  and  exquisite  of  the  victims  of  the  Keign  of  Terror. 


rouRx:6E  OF  work-women.  395 

would  busy  itself  with  such  low  game,  but  it  appears  that  they  were 
sent  up  among  the  rebels  of  La  Vendee. 

"L.  Boissard,  work-woman  (day- worker — journulipre),  aged  18;  M.  Su- 
pin,  widow  (rich),  aged  60 ;  M.  AUeaume,  perruquier's  apprentice,  aged 
17 ;  the  widow  Tardy,  aged  40 ;  A.  Lienard,  aged  17  ;  A.  Grand,  aged  19 
the  widow  Guillotte,  aged  60 ;  the  widow  Prole  (day-worker),  aged  60 
widow  Morrissey  (day-worker),  aged  40  ;   the  woman  Roland,  aged  30 
widow  Lienard,  aged  50;    widow  Rofln  (day-worker),   aged   30;    the 
widow  Maiment,  aged  60;    Madame  Picard,  aged  30;   widow  Bartheau, 
aged  62 ;  widow  Boisseau,  aged  44;  Madame  Coubern,  aged  44;  Madame 
Peysac,  aged  33 ;  Madame  Roche  (housekeeper),  aged  40 ;   Madame  Joly, 
aged  50;   the  woman  Salomon  (day's  works),  aged  30;   the  woman  Joly 
(seamstress),  a'ged  22 — convicted  of  having  participated  in  the  crimes  of 
the  late  tyrant  of  the  rebellion  at  Lyons,  of  associating  with  federalists, 
ofcoTTvphts  at  La  Vendee"  etc.,  etc. 

Two  girls,  one  of  whom  was  13  years  of  age,  were  acquitted. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  plebeian  group,  we  have,  on  the  3d  of  July,  the 
following  slaughter  of  the  nobility:  "Noailles  de  Mouchy,  aged  79, 
ex-duke,  ex-raarshal  of  France,  ex-governor  of  Versailles;  also  his  wife, 
aged  66.  F.  P.  Biron,  widow  of  the  late  duke  of  Biron.  J.  G.  Polas- 
tron,  aged  73,  colonel  of  the  late  regiment  of  tlie  crown.  Hector  Genes- 
thet,  aged  36,  ex-marquis  of  Didier ;  also  his  wife,  aged  26.  Liegard  de 
Liegny,  aged  77,  chevalier  of  the  spurs;  and  others." 

July  5.  Robespierre  has  now  reached  the  summit  of  power,  and 
trembles  on  the  verge  of  an  unseen  precipice,  down  which,  in  less  than 
a  month,  he  is  to  fall  and  perish.  Are  there  no  premonitions  of  this  in 
his  speech  of  this  date  in  the  Convention  ? — 

"  When  crime  conspires  in  darkness,  is  it  for  freemen  to  use  stronger 
means  than  truth  and  pubhcity?  Shall  we  go,  like  the  conspirators,  to 
plot  in  darkness  ?  Shall  we  scatter  corruption  ?  Xo  I  the  arms  of  Lil)- 
erty  and  Tyranny  are  as  different  as  Liberty  and  Tyranny  themselves. 
Against  tyrants  and  their  friends  we  have  no  resource  but  truth  and 
public  opinion.  The  man  of  humanity  is  he  who  devotes  himself  to  the 
cause  of  humanity,  and  who  pursues  with  rigor  and  justice  its  enemies. 
He  will  always  hold  out  the  helping  hand  to  outraged  virtue  and  op- 


396  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

pressed  innocence.  On  the  other  hand,  the  barbarian  is  he  who,  -while 
sympathizing  with  conspirators,  has  no  bowels  for  patriots — who,  while 
waiting  on  the  aristocrats,  is  implacable  to  patriots.  Let  me  speak  for 
myself.  In  London,  they  caricature  me  as  the  assassin  of  honest  men. 
In  Paris,  they  say  that  it  is  I  that  organized  the  Tribunal,  to  destroy 
the  Convention,  and  I  am  portrayed  as  an  oppressor.  In  London,  they 
say  the  affair  of  Regnault  occurred  because  I  guillotined  her  lover 
Thus  the  most  absolute  of  tyrants  attack  an  isolated  'patriot,  who  ha? 
nothing  but  his  courage  and  his  virtue." 

(A  voice — "Robespierre,  thou  hast  all  the  French  for  thee!") 

This  "  man  of  humanity"  continues  his  work  by  a  fournec  on  the  1 0th 
July,  of  which  the  youngest  is  57,  while  it  includes  one  of  80  and  an- 
other of  85  years. 

On  the  12th  July,  a  fournee  of  sixty-nine  is  butchered,  among  whom 
are  Bourre  de  Courberon,  ex-noble,  aged  17.  Goussenville,  the  father, 
aged  49;  the  son,  of  same  name,  aged  20.  LamereUe,  the  father,  aged 
53;  the  son,  aged  18;  also  a  domestic,  F.  Bridier,  aged  72. 

On  the  13th,  this  man,  who  "holds  out  a  helping  hand  to  oppressed 
innocence,"  sends  off  another  fournee  of  forty-eight,  among  which  is  the 
family  of  the  Tardieus,  the  father  aged  64,  the  mother  aged  56,  the 
daughters  severally  23  and  27  years  of  age.  Also  Borne,  father  and 
son — the  former  49,  the  latter  20. 

As  a  sample  of  mercy,  A.  F.  Saint  Marie,  aged  14,  convicted  of 
know-ingly  mingling  with  the  enemies  of  the  country,  is  (on  account 
of  his  tender  years)  sentenced  to  the  house  of  correction  for  twenty 
years ! 

On  the  15th  July,  a  fournee  of  forty-four  is  also  dispatched,  of  whom 
seventeen  are  over  50,  and  one  is  80. 

On  the  22d  July,  two  foiirnces  of  seventy  each.  On  the  25th,  another 
of  strictly  noble  blood,  including  two  brothers  (the  Magons),  the  one  80 
and  the  other  81  years  of  age.  These  unfortunate  old  men  arc  in  con- 
trast with  the  blooming  St.  Pern,  likewise  an  ex-noble,  who  is  but  17. 

Troubles  gathering  around  Robespierre. — In  the  Jacobin  Club,  on  the 
nth  July:  "Robespierre,  Junior,  expresses  his  views  in  a  lively  nion- 
nor  with  respect  to  the  torpor  and  silence  to  wliich  the  Society  has 


TROUBLES  GATHER  AROUND  ROBESPIERRE.        397 

abandoned  itself.  Patriots  are  tormented,  and  the  Jacobins  fail  to  take 
up  their  defence.  The  evil  culminates  when  the  energy  of  the  Jacobins 
is  crushed.  He  complained  of  those  who  resort  to  base  flatteries  to 
create  dissensions  among  patriots.  '  Some  have  even  said  to  me,  that 
they  valued  me  above  my  brother,  but  in  vain  do  they  seek  to  sepa- 
rate us.  So  long  as  he  shall  be  the  proclaimer  of  morals  and  the 
terror  of  sceUrats,  my  ambition  asks  no  higher  glory  than  to  share  his 
tomb.'  " 

The  orator  invited  all  patriots  to  rally,  and  to  denounce  every  abuse, 
and  to  take  a  mutual  defence  of  aU  friends  of  Liberty.  In  fine,  he  de- 
manded that  public  opinion  be  pronounced  in  all  its  energ}-. 

Couthon.  "  All  patriots  are  friends  and  brothers.  I  desire  to  share 
the  dagger  aimed  at  Robespierre  (all  present  cry  out,  'And  I  alsol') 
The  successors  of  Hebert  penetrate  our  midst,  to  crush  patriots.  If  a 
man  of  purity  rise  up  against  these  scelerats,  he  is  by  some  looked  on  as 
a  moderate :  if  he  is  disposed  to  deal  hard  w^ith  traitors,  he  is  treated  as 
a  man  of  blood.  Behold  the  precipices  between  which  the  friend  of  the 
people  must  advance  I  Would  he  attain  his  end  without  wandering,  he 
must  pursue  each  of  these  factions,  with  such  a  courage,  and  with  so 
active  a  perseverance,  that  none  of  the  guilty  remain  unpunished,  and 
that  all  at  last  rejoice  in  that  calm  which  belongs  only  to  the  virtuous. 
This  is  the  end  sought  by  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  Those  who 
dare  suggest  that  the  committee  desire  to  dominate,  neither  know  tho 
I  eople,  who  will  not  suffer  it,  nor  the  committee  itself,  who  cannot  con- 
ceive the  thought ;  and  I  declare  tliat  the  dagger  which  shall  pierce 
one  defender  of  the  country,  shall  pierce  my  breast  also,  or  that  I  wiU 
avenge  himl" 

Robespierre.  "  Our  principles  are,  to  stop  the  effusion  of  blood  poured 
out  by  crime.  The  authors  of  the  plots  we  have  denounced,  aspire  to 
immolate  all  patriots,  and,  above  all,  the  Convention  itself,  since  the 
committee  has  pointed  out  the  vices  that  should  be  purged  away.  Who 
are  those  who  cease  not  to  distinguish  error  from  crime  ?  Are  they  not 
the  members  of  the  committee?" 

The  speaker  closed  by  denouncing  the  author  of  these  manceuvres. 
He  demanded  that  justice  and  virtue  triumph — that  innocence  be  put  at 


39S  JOURNALISM  IX  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

rest — that  the  people  be  victorious — and  that  the  Convention  tramplo 
under  foot  all  its  pettj'  intriguers. 

8th  Thermidor  (2Gth  July).  Exciting  scene  in  the  Convention. — Robe- 
spierre mounts  the  tribune,  and  reads  a  long  discourse.  He  complains 
of  calumny,  and  that  he  lias  been  pointed  out  as  an  enemy. 

The  point  of  debate  on  which  the  conflict  hinges  is  this :  "  Shallhis 
speech  be  printed^"  This  is  moved  by  Lacointre,  and  opposed  by  Bour- 
don de  rOise. 

Coutbon,  aiding  this  movement,  offers  an  amendment,  not  only  to 
print  but  to  circulate  the  speech  through  tlie  Republic. 

Cambon.  "  It  is  time  to  speak  the  whole  truth.  A  single  man  para- 
lyzes tlie  will  of  the  Convention.  It  is  the  man  who  made  that  speech. 
That  man  is  Robespierre  1" 

Robespierre  demands  permission  to  reply  to  this  accusation,  which 
appears  to  him  both  extraordinary  and  unintelligible.  He  asks  but 
libortj"  to  speak  his  opinion.  (A  number  of  voices,  "  We  demand 
it  too:') 

Panis.  "  I  reproach  Robespierre  for  persecuting  Jacobins  merely  be- 
cause it  seems  good  to  him.  I  wish  him  to  say  if  he  lias  proscribed  our 
heads — if  mine  is  on  the  list  he  has  prepared.  It  is  time  for  me  to  open 
my  bleeding  heart.  I  have  been  drenched  in  cahimnies.  I  have  not 
gained  in  the  Revolution  enough  to  give  a  sword  to  my  son  or  a  petti- 
coat to  my  daughter.  Behold  another  fact,  which  proves  how  necessary 
is  the  explanation  I  require  of  Robespierre.  A  man  approached  me  at 
the  Jacobins,  and  said — 

"  '  You  are  the  first  founiec' 

"'How?' 

"  'Your  head  is  demanded  I' 

"  'My  head!  who  am  in  this  good  cause?' 

"Patriots!  there  is  no  need  that  I  should  say  more,  since  it  comes 
from  all  parts  that  Robespierre  has  made  the  hst.  I  demand  an  expla- 
nation." (Applause.) 

Robespierre.  "I  demand  ^o  speak:  my  opinion  is  independent.  I 
flatter  no  one ;  I  fear  no  one.  I  listen  only  to  my  duty.  I  ask  no  sup- 
port, nor  the  friendship  of  any  one.     I  have  not  sought  to  make  a  party 


DEBATE  IN  THE  CONVENTION.         399 

for  myself.  You  can  ask  me  nothing  that  I  wish  to  extenuate.  I  have 
done  ray  duty ;  it  is  for  others  to  do  theirs." 

Charher.  "When  one  vaunts  the  courage  of  virtue,  he  should  have 
that  of  truth.     Name  those  whom  you  accuse."    (Applause.) 

Many  voices.    "Yes  I  yes  I  name  them." 

Couthon's  amendment  is  lost,  and  the  vote  is  a  proof  that  Robe- 
spierre's power  is  forever  gone.  On  the  next  day  comes  the  final 
struggle. 

9th  Thermidor. — The  Convention  meets  amid  intense  excitement.  The 
great  question  which  thrills  every  soul  is,  "What  shall  be  done  with 
Robespierre  ?"  If  he  be  victorious,  they  must  fall — if  he  fall,  they  shall 
live  1 

St.  Just  mounts  the  tribune,  and  discourses  much  in  the  same  vein  of 
Robespierre's  previous  speech.  He  avers  that  though  the  tribune 
should  be  to  him  a  Tarpeian  Rock,  he  should  not  speak  a  word  less  on 
the  causes  of  this  division. 

Billaud  Varennes.  "  Yesterday  the  Society  of  Jacobins  was  filled  by 
apostates.  Yesterday  they  exhibited  in  that  society  the  intention  of 
cutting  the  throats  of  the  Convention  1  (Expressions  of  horror  on  all.) 
The  moment  to  speak  the  truth  has  arrived.  I  am  astonished,  after 
what  has  happened,  to  see  St.  Just  mount  the  tribune.  The  Assembly 
will  perish  if  it  quails.  ('No!  no!'  cry  aU  the  members  at  once,  waving 
their  hats.  The  spectators  respond  with  applause,  and  cries  of  '  Vive  la 
Convention  P)  You  tremble  with  horror  when  you  see  where  you  are — 
when  you  see  that  our  power  is  confided  to  the  hands  of  parricides. 
Robespierre  had  his  wiU  dominant  in  the  Convention  for  six  months, 
and  now,  being  opposed,  abandons  it.  Know,  citizens,  that  yesterday 
the  president  of  the  Tribunal  openly  proposed  to  the  Jacobins  to  sacrifice 
all  members  of  the  Convention  whom  they  call  impure ;  but  the  people 
are  there,  and  patriots  know  how  to  die  for  liberty.  ('Yes!  yes!'  from 
all,  and  applause.)  I  repeat  it,  we  wiU  die  with  honor.  All  this  makes 
me  see  the  abyss  beneath  our  feet.  It  only  needs  that  we  hesitate,  to 
fill  it  with  our  bodies!" 

Robespierre  darts  {s'dance)  into  the  tribune. 

"DowTi  with  the  tyrant!"  from  numerous  voices. 


400  JOURNALISM  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  TERROR. 

Tallien.  "  I  demand  that  we  rend  the  veil — I  demand  the  arrest  of 
Henriot  and  his  staff.  I  appeal  to  all  the  old  friends  of  Liberty — to  all 
the  ancient  Jacobins — to  all  patriotic  journalists — let  tliem  concur  M-ith 
us  to  save  the  Republic.  I  will  bear  my  head  bravely  to  the  scaffold, 
because  I  say  to  myself,  '  An  hour  cometh  when  my  ashes  will  receive 
the  honor  due  a  patriot  persecuted  by  a  tyrant.'  The  man  in  the  tri- 
bune is  a  new  Catiline.  He  wishes  to  attack  us  each  in  turn,  that  he 
may  destroy  us.  I  demand  that  we  decree  our  session  permanent  until 
the  sword  of  the  law  (the  guillotine)  has  secured  the  Revolution,  and 
that  we  ordain  his  arrest." 

These  two  propositions  are  adopted  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  ap- 
plause. 

Robespierre  insists  on  having  the  floor.  "  Down,  down  with  the  ty- 
rant 1"  shouted  anew  by  all  the  members. 

Louchet.    "I  demand  the  decree  of  arrest  against  Robespierre." 

Robespierre,  Junior.  "  I  am  equally  guilty  with  my  brother.  I  par- 
tiike  of  his  virtues.     I  demand  also  the  decree  against  myself." 

The  arrest  is  decreed.  All  the  members  rise,  and  make  the  hall 
resound  witii  the  cry,  "  Vive  la  Liberte!   Vive  la  Eipullique !" 

Freron.  "  Citizens,  this  day  hberty  and  our  country  emerge  from 
ruin." 

Robespierre  (sarcasticallj-).    "Tesl  for  the  brigands  triumph." 

Freron.  "They  wished  to  form  a  triumvirate  which  recalls  the  bloody 
proscription  of  Sylla — they  wished  to  exalt  themselves  on  the  ruins  of 
the  Republic — these  men  Avere  Robespierre,  Couthon,  and  St.  Just. 
Couthon  is  a  tiger,  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  the  Convention.  He  has 
dared,  as  a  royal  amusement,  to  talk  in  the  Jacobin  Club  of  five  or  six 
of  our  heads.  ('Yes!  yesl'  in  all  parts  of  the  house.)  He  wishes  to 
make  of  our  bodies  so  many  steps  to  the  throne." 

Couthon  (sarcastically).    "I  want  a  throne?" 

9th  Tliermidor  (27th  July),  1794. — The  decree  of  outlawry  is  carried, 
and  the  final  scene  at  the  Place  de  la  Ktvolution  follows  on  the  next  day. 

The  guillotining  of  Robespierre  and  his  associates  destroyed  the  Jaco- 
bin Club  at  once.  We  give  a  picture  of  the  old  Jacobin  convent,  in 
which  the  club  met,  and  from  which  it  took  its  name.     The  time  chosen 


LESSON  OF  THE  REVOLUTION".  401 

by  the  artist  is  when  the  bold  Legendre  locks  it  up  in  triumph,  and  car- 
ries  the  key  to  the  Convention.  The  club  had  been  Robespierre's 
stronghold,  and  with  him  it  feU,  never  to  rise  again.  For  two  years  it 
had  ruled  Prance,  and  in  this  brief  period  it  won  an  infamous  renown. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  of  the  many  important  lessons  taught  in  the 
French  Revolution  is  the  danger  of  locating  a  political  capital  in  the 
bosom  of  a  large  city.    It  was  Paris  that  ruled  the  Convention,  and  thus 
Paris  ruled  France.     This  shows  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  in  build- 
ing a  town  for  the  very  specialty  of  political  purposes,  avoiding  thus  the 
boisterous  element  of  a  city  population  and  the  dan'ger  of  mob  violence. 
***** 
Having  thus  run  through  the  columns  of  the  Moniteur  during  nearly 
two  years  of  its  issue,  we  make  a  closing  reference  to  other  Parisian 
journals  of  the  Revolution,  a  Ust  of  which  would  comprise 
Le  Courrier  Framjais,  Les  Annales  do  la  Republique, 

Le  Tableau  Politique  de  Paris,  Le  Patriot  Francais, 

La  Gazette  Frangaise,  Le  Journal  de  Paris, 

Le  Courrier  des  Departemens,  Le  Bulletin  des  Amis  de  la  Verite, 

Les  Nouvelles  Pohtiques,  Pere  Duchesne, 

Le  Courrier  de  I'Europe,  Le  Mercure  Universel, 

Le  Journal  des  Debats,  Le  Courrier  de  I'Egalite, 

L'Ami  du  Peuple,  Lo  Vieux  Cordelier. 

Most  of  these  publications  were  tphemeral  and  unreliable,  except  as 
manifestations  of  fierce  political  strife,  and  hence  we  have  conlined  our 
extracts  to  the  Moniteur,  which,  as  it  gives  no  opinions,  can  more  safely 
be  relied  on  for  facts. 

The  French  Revolution  has  always  been  a  thrilling  subject  for  the 
student  of  history,  but  the  present  civil  war  brings  its  distant  scenes  home 
to  our  closer  experience.  Such  as  feel  the  charm  increased  by  our  own 
upheaval  will  find  the  subject  handled  by  authors  of  great  variety.  To 
such,  Thiers  will  present  the  claims  of  large  detail,  Lamartine  those  of 
poetic  beauty,  while  Carlyle  excels  in  melodramatic  power.  The  latter, 
indeed,  groups  focts  and  characters  in  those  rapid  and  changing  iaUtaux, 
wliich,  hke  Martin's  pictures,  bear  an  unapproachable  grandeur. 


403  EXPLANATION  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 


EXPLANATION    OF    THE    ENGRAVINGS. 

A  few  -words  of  explanritioa  may  not  be  amiss,  to  those  who  have 
noticed  the  unpreteuding  illustrations  of  this  volume. 

The  St.  Mary's  Chubch  ia  taken  from  an  English  work,  containing 
views  of  the  chief  ecclesiastical  structures  in  the  Kingdom.  Camden 
says  that  St.  Mary's  is  on  all  accounts  the  first  parish  church  in  Eng- 
land. It  was  commenced  in  1249,  but  was  not  completed  until  1376, 
and  was  then  famed  for  its  beauty.  The  tower  of  the  church  was  sub- 
sequently injured  by  a  storm,  and  is  represented  in  this  imperfect  condi- 
tion. The  muniment  room,  in  which  the  parchments  were  said  to  have 
been  found,  is  directly  over  the  porch. 

The  Place  de  la  Coscorde. — This  spot  will  always  interest  the 
stranger  in  Paris,  from  its  terrible  associations.  It  is  near  the  Tuileries, 
whose  dome  may  be  noticed  amid  the  foliage  on  the  right  hand.  Directly 
in  front  are  the  Treasury  and  other  public  buildings.  It  wiU  thus  he 
seen  that  the  Revolutionists  chose  the  most  convenient  place  in  Paris 
for  the  Guillotine.  On  these  public  grounds  thousands  could  gather  and 
still  find  room.  Louis  Phihppe  ornamented  the  place,  and  endeavored,  so 
far  as  possible,  to  remove  the  fearful  associations  which  surround  it.  A 
pair  of  fine  fountains  give  an  air  of  taste  and  beauty,  while  the  obelisk  of 
Luxor  adds  an  interesting  feature.  This  was  erected  there  by  Louis 
Philippe,  and  stands  not  f-ir  from  the  very  spot  where  his  own  father, 
Philip  Due  d'Orleans  (Egahte),  was  guillotined,  following  in  a  few  months 
his  own  kinsman  (Louis  XVI.),  for  whose  death  he  voted. 

The  Guillotine  and  its  Victims. — These  vignettes  are  taken  from  re- 
liable portraits,  and  one  can  easily  recognize  the  cliaracteristics  of  the  ori- 
ginals. Robespieri-e's  face  shows  cunning — Marat  is  stamped  by  brutality. 
Anacharsis  Cloots  is  full  of  self-conceit,  Fouquier  Tinville  of  ferocity. 
The  grace  of  the  lovely  Madame  Roland  and  the  sweet  simplicity  of  Ciiar- 
lotte  Corday  are  correctly  rendered,  and  are  in  contrast  with  the  hag- 
gard and  exhausted  features  of  Camille  Desmoulins.  Chaumette  ex- 
hibits his  native  boldness,«but  Camille  sunk  under  disappointment,  and 
is  the  only  one  mentioned  ;ib  w..'eping  at  the  scadbld. 


EXPLANATION   OP  ENGRAVINGS.  403 

Beatrice  Cenci. — This  picture  may  be  called  the  most  popular  por- 
trait in  the  world.  It  has  been  reproduced  not  only  in  oil,  but  in  every 
style  of  engraving,  and  has  now  a  cosmopolitan  existence.  As  i.s  gene- 
rally known,  the  family  of  the  Cenci  suffered  for  years  from  the  most 
horrible  and  unnatural  cruelty  of  Count  Cenci,  their  father,  whose  wealth 
screened  him  from  justice.  Driven  at  last  to  utter  despair,  a  domestic 
conspiracy  was  formed,  and  his  death  was  the  result.  For  this  his  en- 
tire family  was  beheaded,  except  the  youngest  child,  who  was  only 
spared  lest  a  noble  house  should  become  extinct.  The  original  was 
painted  by  Guido  in  prison,  the  day  before  Beatrice's  execution,  and  our 
engraving  is  a  correct  representative  of  its  style  and  character. 

Danton. — During  Danton's  early  career  his  portrait  was  very  popular 
in  Paris,  and  our  print,  taken  from  an  old  French  picture,  gives  one  a 
correct  idea  of  the  bold  and  indomitable  Revolutionist.  It  was  his  mind 
that  conceived  the  fearful  Tribunal  while  he  had  charge  of  the  Judiciary 
of  France  (as  Minister  of  Justice),  and  only  one  year  after  its  inaugura- 
tion he  appeared  as  its  chief  victim.  Among  his  last  words  were  these, 
as  he  mounted  the  scafifold:  "DANTON:  NO  WEAKNESS  !"  He  was 
born  at  Arcis  on  the  Aube,  and  was  guillotined  in  the  Place  de  la  Revo- 
lution, April  5,  1794,  aged  thirty-five. 

Carlyle,  speaking  of  his  death,  says:  "  So  passes,  like  a  gigantic  mass 
of  valor,  ostentation  and  fury,  affection  and  wild  revolutionary  manliood, 
this  Danton  to  his  unknown  home.  He  had  manj-  sins,  but  one  worst 
sin  lie  had  not — cant.  No  hollow  formalist,  but  a  very  man — with  all 
his  dross  he  was  man.  Fiery  real,  from  the  great  fire-bosom  of  nature  her- 
self.    He  walked  straight  his  own  wild  road,  whithersoever  it  led  him." 

The  Jacobin  Club-House. — It  was  by  one  of  those  fortuitous  circum- 
stances in  which  history  abounds,  that  the  society  of  Revolutionary 
opinion  opened  its  sessions  in  the  old  convent  of  the  Jacobins. 

These  Rellgieux  having,  Uke  the  Capuchins  and  Franciscans,  and  other 
orders,  become  defunct,  their  places  were  supplied  by  a  far  different 
body.  The  building  became  the  pandemoniun''.of  Paris,  and  was  rife  with 
the  hisses  and  applause  of  the  vilest  rabble.  In  this  place  the  most  fear- 
ful episodes  of  the  Revolution  had  their  inception,  and  the  voices  of  its 
mobs  tilled  France  with  blood.     Over  ibis  club  Robespierre  held  won- 


404  EXPLANATION  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

drous  sway,  and  when  voted  down  in  tlie  Convention,  lie  found  a  last 
short  consolation  in  its  applause.  In  this  place  Anacharsis  Cloots  expa- 
tiated on  human  rights  and  the  world's  brotherhood ;  and  here  too 
Camille  Desmouhns  had  been  a  pet.  On  the  fall  of  Robespierre,  Legen- 
dre  dashed  over  to  the  convent,  and  with  a  nerve  which  one  may  wonder 
at,  locked  the  door,  and  then,  returning  to  the  Convention,  flung  the  key 
on  the  floor  amid  the  applause  of  the  astonished  benches.  It  is  now 
supposed  to  be  empty,  aud  the  sentinels  at  the  doors  guard  against  its 
future  occupation  by  the  doomed  society.  The  reader  will  note  the 
revolutionary  flag  surmounted  by  the  bonnet  rouge,  the  red  cap  of  Lib- 
erty. Before  the  building  stands  the  tree  of  Liberty,  protected  by  a 
fence,  while  near  the  gable  may  be  read  the  inscription : 

"  Societe  des  Jacobins. 
"  Unite,  Liberte,  Egalite,  et  Securite." 
Under  which  motto  the  most  horrible  crimes  were  committed. 

Hbneiot  Stopping  the  Rescue. — Tliis  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
scenes  in  the  Revolution,  and  one  to  whose  fearful  character  no  artist 
can  do  justice.  Our  illustration  is  from  a  French  design,  and  barely 
attempts  the  truth.  A  wanton  thirst  for  blood  alone  could  prompt  the 
deed.  Bulwer  has  placed  one  of  his  heroines  (Viola)  in  this  fourm'e, 
and  the  artist  portrays  one  countenance  in  obedience  to  fiction  rather 
than  fact.  Before  the  next  day  Henriot  himself  w  is  besieged  by  the 
Convention,  aud  sixteen  hours  afierwards  he  felt  the  keen  edge  of  tlio 
same  axe  to  which  tlie  day  previou.sly  he  had  sent  t  liis  very  foiirme.  The 
reader  will  observe  that  the  head  of  each  victim  has  been  cropped,  in 
order  that  the  hair  might  not  interfere  with  the  executioner. 

The  Fall  of  Robespierre. — This  j^rint  represents  the  scene  in  the 
town-hall,  at  daylight  on  the  10th  Thermidor,  1794.  The  building 
is  besieged  by  the  forces  of  the  Convention,  which  have  at  length  forced 
their  way  in.  Henriot,  the  Commandant  of  Paris,  who  leads  the  de- 
fence, is  drunk,  and  hence  loses  the  fight.  Robespierre  in  despair  shoots 
himself.  His  brother  tears  his  hair  at  the  sight,  while  Payan  looks  on 
in  bitter  agony.  Leaning  against  the  wall,  in  solitary  horror,  stands  the 
young  St.  Just,  his  natural  soowl  fiercer  than  over,  while  his  right  hand 
clasps  a  pistol,  which  he  has  not  resolution  to  fire.     Couthon  sits  at  a 


EXPLANATION  OF  ENGRAVIXGS.  405 

table,  hia  forehead  grasped  nervously  by  his  left  hand,  and  while  some 
one  proposes  escape  he  feels  his  helplessness  as  a  cripple.  One  points 
to  the  door,  out  of  which  two  are  hastening.  Escape,  however,  is  im- 
possible, since  the  enemy  holds  the  lower  halL  In  the  foreground, 
ColBnhal  has  seized  Henriot  by  the  throat,  to  throw  him  out  of  the  win- 
dow in  revenge  for  his  drunken  neglect,  and  others  are  helping  him. 

The  reader  will  note  the  costume  of  the  day, — short-waisted  coats, 
■with  long  skirts  and  broad  sashes, — a  style  of  dress  afi'ected  by  the 
Montagnwrds,  and  in  fact  the  fashion  of  the  Revolution. 

The  Chess-Platers,  or  the  Gasie  of  Human  Life. — This  impressive 
outline  is  one  of  those  delineations  which  have  immortalized  the  name 
of  Retzsch.  To  those  who  are  familiar  with  his  style,  we  need  not  say 
that  his  genius  deUghted  in  simple  outUnes,  in  which,  by  means  of  a  few 
touches,  he  could  produce  the  most  powerful  effect.  In  this  style  of  art 
he  stands  unapproachal^le,  and  his  illustrations  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  and 
Shakspeare  have  their  place  among  the  finest  creations  of  genius. 

The  picture  represents  Satan  playing  with  ilan  for  his  souL  The 
scene  is  chosen  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  reference  to  the  whole  idea 
that  is  to  be  expressed.  The  very  architecture  intimates  the  presence 
of  that  dark  being  to  whose  sphere  belongs  all  that  is  horrible,  confound- 
ing, and  seductive.  It  is  a  wide  vault,  whose  arch  is  formed  by  two 
lizard-shaped  monsters,  whose  heads,  half  bird,  half  locust,  as  weU  as 
their  short,  misshapen  claws,  adhere  closely  to  its  two  piUars,  down 
whicli  they  seem  to  creep.  The  upper  surface  of  a  sarcophagus  is  trans- 
formed into  a  chess-board;  and  Man,  as  a  fair  youth,  sits  at  this  table, 
his  head,  covered  with  the  curls  of  early  manhood,  resting  on  his  hand, 
and  his  countenance  fuU  of  careful  thoughts.  Opposite  to  him,  on  tlie 
spectator's  left  hand,  is  Satan,  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  seated  in  a  largo 
chair,  one  of  whose  arms  shows  an  open-mouthed  lion,  "  seeking  whom 
he  may  devour,"  while,  lower  down,  the  claw  of  this  lion,  grasping  a  hu- 
man skuU,  intimates  his  death-bringing  power.  A  broad  cloak,  from 
which  only  his  bony,  claw-like  hands  appear,  is  thrown  around  him,  and 
liis  hair  and  his  beard  bristle  wildly  about.  In  his  cap  is  the  long,  crook- 
ed cock's  feather,  which  ancient  tradition  has  uniformly  regarded  as  sus- 
picious.    The  features  of  his  countenance  are  noble,  for  he  is  still  a  fallen 


406  EXPLANATION  OF  ENGRAVINGS. 

angel ;  but  their  exi^ression,  as  becomes  this  fallen  state,  is  devilish  and 
hateful,  lie  who  was  a  liar  from  the  beginning ;  he  who  plaj-s  falsely ; 
he  who  breaks  faith  with  all  confederates,  is  undeniably  before  us,  with 
all  the  coldness  of  a  tiger,  and  with  all  the  cruelty  of  a  hyena.  Con- 
tumely, scorn,  hatred,  malice  rejoicing  in  mischief,  may  lind  here  tlieir 
appropriate  features ;  and  the  hand  ou  the  chin  may  either  conceal  a  de- 
moniacal smile  at  the  prize  it  is  about  to  seize,  or  repress  a  horrid  impre- 
cation, before  which  the  gates  of  hell  would  tremble,  that  deliverance  may 
still  be  possible.  Between  the  two  players,  somewhat  in  the  back-ground, 
stands  a  gentle,  lovely  angel-form,  with  white  and  outspread  wings, — 
a  son  of  the  Morning,  the  protecting  spirit  of  this  human  being,  but 
not  seen  by  him.  To  thrust  him  away  is  beyond  Satan's  power ; — the 
Jiuman  being  alone  can  renounce  or  reject  him.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
tlie  Genius  himself,  like  conscience,  can  only  gently  warn,  not  directly 
counsel  nor  absolutely  control  conduct.  He  looks  in  sorrow  down  upon 
the  critical  state  of  the  game  ;  and  is  already  partly  turned  away  from 
the  trust  committed  to  his  charge.  But  now  let  us  look  again  at  the 
game  itself.  The  form  of  the  King,  on  Satan's  side,  represents  himself, 
muffled  indeed  in  his  cloak,  but  stiU  to  be  recognized  at  the  first  glance. 
Ilis  forces  are  pressing  eagerly  forward.  His  queen,  a  voluptuous  female 
figure  with  an  unveiled  bosom,  is  Pleasure,  whose  left  hand  draws  her 
robe  tightly  around  her  alluring  charms,  while  her  right  ofiers  the  cup 
of  intoxication. '  The  officers  are  six  vices.  1.  Indolence,  sitting  on  an 
unhewn  block  of  wood ;  a  heavy,  full  ibrm,  with  the  head  of  a  swine ; 
hanging,  misshapen  arms,  and  clumsy  legs.  2.  Anger,  rash  and  head- 
long, like  the  turkey-cock,  that  flies  into  a  rage  with  every  object  it 
meets;  wears  the  head  of  this  bird,  and  fluttering  his  wings,  bristles 
sharp  quills  upon  his  neck  and  back.  3.  Pride,  grave,  moving  stiffly 
forward,  wearing  on  his  head,  which  is  tossed  backward,  a  feather  crown, 
one  arm  insolently  thrust  into  his  side ;  but  forgetful,  wliile  he  displays 
his  splendid  peacock's  tail,  how  much  of  what  disgraces  him  he  leaves 
naked  behind.  Spurs  are  on  his  heels;  an  order  is  on  liis  breast;  one 
liand  holds  a  full  purse,  the  other  is  stretched  out,  as  if  giving  command. 
4.  Falsehood,  a  form  spotted  like  a  tiger's,  with  the  head  of  a  cat,  and 
the  ears  laid  fawniugly  back.     One  hnnd  is  laid,  as  if  to  assure  good 


EXPLANATION   OF   ENGRAVINGS.  407 

faith,  upon  her  breast ;  while  the  other  hides  a  dagger  behind  her 
back.  5.  Avarice  and  Envy  in  one  person,  a  bent,  lean  figure,  gnawing  it3 
own  hand,  and  pressing  a  casket  closely  under  its  arm.  G.  T3  nbelief,  an  im- 
pudent, horned  iigure,  both  hands  thrust  into  its  sides,  and  overthrow- 
ing a  cross  with  its  foot.  The  eight  Pawns  are  Doubts ;  small  harpy- 
shaped  creatures,  with  wings  like  bats,  and  sharp  teeth.  On  the  side  of 
the  Human  Being,  his  own  soul  is  represented  as  the  King,  with  a  broad 
robe  firmly  and  anxiously  drawn  about  him,  and  the  wings  of  a  butter- 
fly on  his  shoulders.  The  Queen  is  Religion,  the  most  powerful  of  aU 
defences ;  a  lofty,  majestic  figure,  with  ample  pinions,  stretching  out  one 
hand  as  giving  protection,  and  holding  in  the  otlier  the  sign  of  expiation. 
The  Officers  are,  1.  Hope,  with  her  anchor.  2.  Truth,  with  a  lighted 
torch  and  a  reflecting  shield,  stands  with  Hope  as  a  castle  on  her  side. 
3.  Peace,  with  the  palm.  4.  Humility,  her  head  bent  in  prayer,  and 
her  person  sparingly  clad.  5.  Innocency,  a  naked  child,  stretching  forth 
its  arms  confidingly  to  all.  6.  Love,  two  children  embracing  each  other, 
cheek  pressed  against  cheek,  while  above  both  rests  a  single  star.  The 
pawTis  are  here  represented  as  angels'  heads,  winged,  and  worshipping. 
They  signify  Prayer ;  for,  as  an  Officer  who  has  been  lost,  maj'  be  recov- 
ered in  chess  by  a  pawn,  so  may  a  spiritual  loss  often  be  recovered  by 
prayer.  The  game  stands  iU  for  tlie  Human  Being.  His  adversary  has 
already  weakened  the  power  of  prayer,  by  taking  from  him  several 
angels'  heads :  Love  and  Innocence  are  lost ;  Humility  gone ;  and  Peace, 
just  seized,  is  still  held  in  his  claw-like  fingers.  Pleasure,  Unbehef,  and 
Evil  Doubts  are  pressing  tumultuously  forward  against  Rehgion,  who 
stands  there  tranquil  and  sublime;  protecting  Man,  who  is  thus  attacked 
in  so  many  waj's,  but  who,  so  long  as  he  does  not  give  up  Religion,  may 
yet  hope  for  escape.  Unhappy  man  himself  has  only  vanquished  Anger, 
and  overcome,  u  single  Doubt.  The  ornaments  of  the  outside  of  the  Sar- 
cophagus,— a  Psyche  alarmed  at  the  approach  of  Death  and  images  of 
terror — indicate  more  nearly  the  disposition  and  state  of  the  human  soul. 
Two  Death's  heads  stretch  forth  from  the  ornaiHents  of  the  panel,  and, 
with  fleshless  jaws,  seize  on  her  delicate  and  ethereal  -(\ings.  Horror- 
struck,  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands,  whilst  these  impure  monsters 
wind  their  protracted  trains  repeatedly  round  her  light  form,  and,  by 


408  EXPLANATION   OF    ENGRAVINGS. 

constantly  relaxing  and  contracting  themselves,  cruelly  sport  with  hor 
faint-hearted  despondency.  But,  if  she  should  succeed,  though  with 
impaired  flight,  to  struggle  away  from  her  tormentors,  then  these  Phan- 
toms, which  are  rooted  in  the  Sarcophagus  itself,  would  be  unable  to 
follow  her,  and  those  words  of  consolation  would  here,  too,  be  fuLlilled : 
"  The  terrors  of  the  Grave  shall  not  overcome  thy  soul." 

"Whether,  therefore,  we  regard  the  originality  of  the  invention,  or  thr 
perfect  keeping  of  the  allegory,  this  design  will  still  remain  one  of  the 
happiest  creations  of  genius  and  art.  The  mind  that  willingly  turns  its 
thoughts  upon  what  is  most  serious  in  life,  cannot  easily  remain  unmov- 
ed b)'  tlie  deep  meaning  of  the  idea  here  represented  ;  while  many  a  pre- 
sumptuous spirit,  beholding  Peace  already  in  Satan's  hands.  Innocence 
gone,  Doubts  urgent,  and  the  assured  prospect,  that  the  bold  game  it- 
self must  be  lost  if  Religion  be  sacrificed,  may  yet  cast  a  searching  look 
upon  what  is  passing  within  himself.  Above  all,  would  we  draw  the 
thoughts  of  Woman  to  this  design,  partly  because,  as  the  high  heavens 
are  most  perfectly  reflected  in  the  tranquil  mirror  of  the  waters,  so  is  all 
tliat  is  elevated  most  purely  and  gladly  reflected  from  her  tranquil  spirit ; 
— and  partly,  too,  because  the  delicate  and  spiritual  wings  of  many  a 
gentle  P.syche  are  wasted  away  and  devoured  by  the  loathsome  Phan- 
toms which  have  wound  about  them.  To  aU,  then,  and  especially  to 
each  such  Buffering  Psyche,  may  this  image  declare  aloud  that  all  suf- 
ferings are  earthly  and  transient,  and  that,  by  a  quiet  patience,  they  can 
yet  struggle  upward  to  a  peace  and  happiness,  to  which  their  tormen- 
tors can  never  follow  them. 


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